Thief. Con artist.

The heart is an exposed jewel.
A diamond in daylight,
on the wrong side of town.

It’s easily stolen.

Love plunders your secret places.
Love absconds with your private glories.
Love makes you look both ways.

Scallywags. Drifter-types.

Love hangs around the room like a smoke cloud.


Like a strong shot of whiskey,
Love reaches down your throat
and makes your words
dry and insane.

(holds you up at midnight,
your arms in the air, out of breath,
giving up whatever is demanded
of you)

Love makes you drunk,
corrupts you,
consumes you,
contaminates your every thought
until all you think about is Love.

Fucking Love.
Hot, fucking, sexy Love.

Dealers. Junkies.

Love is a drug, but that’s old news.

It turns you into a wino,
sipping at the wine of her lips,
but that’s old news.

Did you know it plays the piano
like Franz Liszt?

(a piano is the least sensual instrument,
for it can’t be moved and it can’t be held)

In the war that is this world,
in the brief instance which is life,
in spite of all the chaos of Love,
the only hiding place worth hiding
is in your lover’s fragile arms…

The only way to find Love
is to find yourself.
The only way to find yourself
is to destroy yourself.


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