Tamed by an ordinary spirit,
So blissful and so charming,
Love, that is,
Or is it lust?
Either of the two end,
With lacerations that spell loss.
A mere flesh wound, mind you,
These temporary frowns,
Caused by passing past smiles,
Are only appetizers to the main course,
A bite of taste and a sip of tears.
Like 1-2-3,
The sensations come as fast as “they” go,
And to accept these customaries of life,
Is to accept that there is no permanence,
When it comes to stimulation.
Revive this lost soul,
As it relied on the scents of “them,”
To feel something deeper, more wholesome,
After years of self-isolation,
Caused by the last one that came and went.
Love this lustful sense of loss,
I sometimes crave the morbidity,
To remind me that I’m still breathing,
When I lost myself trying to preserve,
That feeling of lust masquerading as love.
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