They say I write for love for I am in love, and they love the works I wrote.

But I can't help but be a little peeved, though still I smile with the gratefulness it connotes.

I wonder when will they hear the reprimands my heart whispers. That I do not write for love because I am in love, but I write of love because of you.

When icicles hang by the wall,
  And **** the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
  And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
          To-whit!
To-who!—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the ***.

When all aloud the wind doe blow,
  And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
  And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted ***** hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
          To-whit!
To-who!—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the ***.

You are the sweetest of my torments.
You're the tangible torture of citrus
The bite followed by the ****
Fresh and unbearable in the same instance

You're the lemon zest scent;
Sultry, as I quarter fruit
In my hot summer kitchen.
You're the juice in the cut
As the knife knicks my thumb;
The sweetness meeting the wild coppery tang
of blood in my mouth.

You're in the twist in my chest
That exists somewhere between my heart and my stomach
Both organs being wrenched apart...
When I see your picture
And remember that we haven't spoken in months.

when you use all of your water on one plant,
you drown it.