for a writer to be lovesick
is my only required ethic
in creating a work of heart

so when i skimmed your
saint kissed mouth
and moonlight eyes
indeed my first thoughts were— ah! art!

there it was
cupid’s finely-poised dart!
draw, aim, fire!
o, so sweet, a sinful desire

lovesick! lovesick! lovesick!
i wish to write you a work of art, angelus dulce!

you smiled
you whispered with ferocity
“love is an illusion, chèri.
but illusion is the first of all pleasures”

and at that moment
i dipped my body in your delusional paradise
and praised the saints for giving me the ****** wine to drink

illusion is the first of all pleasures.