Once I thought love was tangible.
That it was gentle, precious
Careful and sweet
                                                           ­   Then I realized that love was an idea
                                                            ­  A theory that bruised and crumpled
                                                        ­                  Until you were used and torn



                                        *I don’t believe in love anymore

Finding a living is so hard,
so difficult to sustain
without a reason to sustain it.
Beyond personal dreams
and a need for greed.

An ocean of eyes follow me
through the working day
until I crave isolation.
Only to stumble into
my blank-walled retreat
and realise what isolation really means.

What happened to our potential love?
I cannot read your last letter,
too scared to hear
that you hold a happiness
that bears absolutely
no reliance on me.

You found our distance
lost its charm. You have him,
with his immediacy
and a history to draw upon,
to justify.
I am a teenage folly,
left in the scrap of old photographs
and even older emotion.

A disused, defunct muscle
left to atrophy
as you find your comfort
and your way in life.
But you are a stray, a stray
with the desire
to be led astray;
with the want for a longing.

You know I can fill your days with poetry,
your bed with flame,
your winters with heat.

I like the kind of girl that I'll never be with.
That I don't want to be with.
Because it'd never work.
And that's too bad I guess.

I like the kind of girl who just knows.
Who knows that whoever we're with,
And whoever we say we love,
We still know each other.

I like the kind of girl who's reluctant to kiss me.
I don't need her to kiss me.
I've experienced her lips before.
I just need her stares now.

She is ambiguous and undefined.
But so are my desires.
So is love.
If that's what you want to call it.