And maybe it is –
That Love is not patient,
Nor kind, nor trusting
It boasts and it is proud,
Pitted against sister Lust, it is often cowed.
The first time I heard of Love?
She called me from beyond the pages of a hard-back novel;
Whispering sweet nothings,
She promised to be tender, and caring,
With a soft timbre to her voice, that folded sweet-honey-like over my inquisitive ears,
She spoke of loyalty, fidelity,
Clothed herself in red velvet,
A porcelain visage,
Soft, full lips, of also-red,
And eyes – deep brown; all-so-soft.
So when she met me by the midnight sky, dressed darker than the sky in skin-tight black,
Naked legs, breasts,
Bared to the lewd biting of the cold air,
Raggy, brown hair,
A hungry eye and smile, lips-licking, fangs bared?
I was shocked to silence.
My mouth agape, she sealed her honeyed lips against mine,
So falling upon the shimmying laughing-grass, the laughing-friends; “Good on ya mate!”
The square, plastic packaging that was flung in our direction;
When it was done,
What drought of feeling, so Sahara-like,
That did suck from my body all wonder-sanctity of life?
Sprinkle Aqua-vitae, yet it does not slake the thirst.
I spat at her.
You are not Love.