“Love,” am I right?
Either you handle the concept with a fifty-foot pole,
or you lick your lips, and
sink your teeth right into it without question.
You choose to be safe
or you choose to be satisfied.

But there’s a small collection of us
who hang back in the shadows.
Those of us who choose neither.
Those of us who think.

We’re hesitant to even speak the word.
[Rightfully so.]
You're a naive if you use it too much.
You're a heartless ******* if you don’t say it at all.
But it's only a word.
We shouldn't give it the authority
to paint us into a corner.

Yet, here I sit
where my favorite two walls meet—
plenty of moments for thinking—
a thick, fresh coat dripping down
on either side of me.

There you stand,
arms crossed and smiling—
all come-hither and inviting—
saturated paintbrush in hand.

The only thought I can manage?
*****. I really like this color.