Love is a battlefield, corpses as real as they appear in nightmares; their long quiet stare embedded in my soul like a trench.
True love is a massacre, hail of gunfire across the present tense but dust gets kicked up and the future ain’t friendly with sand in its eyes.
Yeah, true romance is murder, if cynicism is a victim and quick death is the prize.
Love is holding everything I know would die, and choosing to keep its body warm, remove the shiver from its fragile form.
Love is that last defense, an enemy’s babe againt one’s chest, and raising it as your own.
Love is a crone, its beauty a facade sewn over centuries old magic, a visage of home in tragic takeaways, the result of practiced pain, last thoughts before the derailed trains of runaway addages.
(complete and utter madness)
Love is holding a book of perfect matches, and the gratification of delaying fires.