why does love always
feel like a battlefield. a
battlefield. a battlefield.
a friend of a brother once said,
biting his tongue and
chewing his cheek.

          hand glued to his mandible
          head tilted like a sinking ship
          taking in its final breath, huuuuaaaaa
          and before it sinks in
          a miraculous cacophony;; it
          exhales, aaaaaaaahh.

why do we stop, when we can
start, i asked Sartre, who
may have responded in a
tongue i can’t taste.

i’m amazed. love
and swords, such imagery!
and repetition like cupids’
arrows fired from each side
of such silly, important warfare.

i’m glad-
in this battlefield. battlefield
battlefield, i’m not fighting a
battle, or settling a skirmish;
i’ve sat down with the blonde haired
soldiers (though my comrades
shake brown locks), and we’ve
begun to play soccer and drink
in the name of conflict.