Love is not peace
or happiness
love is the passion
of poppies that bleed
profusely
love is the emptiness
of a poisonous thorn
that ****** the heart
love is the kiss of a rose
that doesn't know what to do
love is a dangerous game
people either die without regret
or live with pain in their necks
love is the white spaces of the years
left to our imagination
sometimes it's like sand in our hands
the tighter we hold it
the faster it fades
fortunately when it does
our soul can regain some peace.