What is love, when only empty vessels exist?
When you have no lover, when you aren't loved.
What is love, but absent kisses on chaste lips and
Promises left unfulfilled in glass jars left to
Shatter?
What is love
If not the willingness of true pain.
To tear out the heart and hand it to another
Only for them to fumble your most precious *****.
What is love, if not the complete nakedness of the soul
Standing vulnerable before another.
What is love without the bitter taste of betrayal,
Like bile in your mouth?
What is love, if it isn't the silent, muffled, wrenching cries
At 3:16 in the morning that streak down skin so raw
Only to drip into oceans of despair and anguish.
What is love if it is not the slow drowning of
Your former self.
If not the suicide of the soul.
What is love without its admonition?
Without the stalemate of stubbornness and ego?

It is the willingness of spirits to collide
As walls collapse.
Its your secrets blended with mine.
It is our scars intertwined.
It is that leap, that moment of clarity,
Soaring over a chasm to reach you on the other side.
It is the disregard of fear, the spoken fableded words
Reciprocated.
It is the unwavering yearning for your touch, your kiss
Your chaste lips
Upon mine
at *3:16 am.