How often now, does love come and make you senseless, as  you stand there defenseless in the face of this great force that feels like summer on your skin.
You think it will be sweet. It will be real. It will follow the script and say all you need to hear.
But love is not like that at all,
Because love is not pink or red or rose bouquets.
Love is messy and confused. Love says a little and nothing.
Love plays with words, and feeds of emotions to grow art
Love is curious, but serious, never letting one hint drop
Love is a slob, that waits for the wind to sail some
New broken souls his way. Love killed me. Love made me restless. Love made me cry. Love made me dream of stars and...and love deceived.

Love didn't love me at all.