Love is,
but a whisper,
but a whimper,
but a word,

But a sequence,
but a cycle,
but a series,
but a chord,

But a moment,
but an instant,
but a second,
but a spell,

But a teacher,
but a student,
but a mentor,
but a hell.

Love is,
found tomorrow,
found today,
forever more,

Is a heartache,
is a serpent,
is a headache,
is a whore.

Love is,
but a perfume,
but a fragrance,
but a smell,

But a turmoil,
but a battle,
but a conflict,
but a cell.

Love is,
so subjective,
thoughts abound,

So elusive,
so conducive,
so conclusive,
does confound.

Yet the silence,
met by violence,
does deceive,
the mortal soul,

In the morning,
comes the warning,
what was halved,
can now be whole.

Love is,
Love is,

Love is,
Love is,

Love is,
Love is,

Love is,
Love is,


She drops the vase,
The porcelain erupts.
Her heart quickens its beat,
As shards of lilac
Splash the wood beneath her feet.

Flushing, cheeks aflame,
She stoops to hide the wreckage,
Stoops to clear the mess,
Scoops the jagged pieces,
Dripping blood upon her dress.

Unexpected anger,
Explodes from moistened lips.
Pausing, deep inhale,
She holds her thumb between her teeth,
Pulsing, throbbing, feeling pale.