Love is
kissing her tender lips
like they're made from the gods,
divine, palatable yet frigid and cold
Love is
ripping her chest apart
only to find a labyrinth that led to home
─but never the place to call your own
Love is
leaving a note on her coffee table
saying I love you
but
I told you so
Love is
turning her into a beautiful poetry
without crushing her soul,
without tormenting her ego
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC