Love...
Coming in sunset hues in my dreams
And incubus-like shadows.
Too long...
I watched honey smeared lips
And just admired.
I feel...
That love smells rather of pesticides than freedom.
Like having to love to say I hate you?
What the **** is that...
Love...
Is cold in the air
Platonic, romantical, ****** you name it.
I've no love to spare.
Gravitational regret...
How smooth can you be?
What's falling in love and what's just thinking about it, the possibility, of potentially feeling what is marketed as... Love.
Dedicational letters or careless texts seem useless,
Unless they make you feel less worthless.
Nonetheless it's just advertisement for some feeling growing out of my inexistent basement.
Cynical...
I've been told,  told that I have an asexual view over romanticisms and ****** encounters.
No.
I am just as perverted as the rest of the world,
Possibly even more.
But what is ******* and *** to love
The statuesque human principle?
Simply just as relatives as time.