From tall steeples church bells' ring,

Cupid's arrow has a painful sting.

And still of you I long to sing,

my heart glows blue, a crystal bling.

To stay away, I could not endure,

for this affliction I know no cure.


But writing soothes and numbs the ache,

red-hot coals, thrown in a lake.

Still, no lake is quite so cold

to quench these embers, truth be told.


When you walk in, I feel like I need an inhaler

- instant asthma - your eyes make stars seem paler.

Every time I make you laugh,

half of my soul meets the other half.

I said I'd quit, that these poems are done,

but I relapse, sentimentality has won.

In the morning again I'll say:

"There is no us, there is no way",

But evening melancholy crystallizes into rhyme,

the urge to write keeps winning every time.

Like an alcoholic taking a shot every other day,

I can't get over you if I can't get away.

And I don't want to, no matter what they say,

this fatal addiction - I wouldn't have it any other way.

Even if I get on my own nerves during day,

the nights are ours, as sleepless I lay.

Up until 3 am, thinking of the perfect metaphor,

for the call of my muse I cannot ignore.

So, call me silly, call me a fool,

I'm a romantic, under love's rule.