love is the withered regalia of a once plump.

where passion blinks, heat drinks
and stars fall, plastered.
jaundiced in the haunted grove
of our weary retreat
from the *******.

love is the drum, coming. the numb, one thing -
that might matter.
but we have our patterns and the lights flicker
where the loose tatters
knit their treason in the dumb blood
of our heart's disaster.

but love wants
what the heart
is after.

cue the laughter.