Dost thou still want it?
This that beats for you?
This that stutters only for you, in every sense of the word?
But what are words?
I've yet to see prose that taught me rhythm,
Just as I've yet to see love that taught me to love.
By God, I hate the lies that come with love -
I hate the joy that comes with love, when t'has left me -
But then how can I love love?
That Cupid's wings are clipped I swear to know;
Then how to take a poisoned shot from below
Without flinching?
Aye, that glorified hunter,
He is not a lover's friend
And it is not he that crafted this;
It is not he who fights for this;
It is not he who chooses if his wound
Is cauterized by your touch
Or is fatal.
Such an unsteady ***** is the heart,
Always frantic;
Always too quick or else too stagnant
But 'tis our driving force that pulls us back
In more ways than one.
Mine is yours if yours is mine
And he cannot claim the key -
Not if you give it to him to hold.
Because the key is not just in the necklace
You wear to sleep and wear to run,
And wear when seams are left undone;
It is your own that holds the shape to cause the click,
And perhaps, if we lay close enough, you'll hear'th it.