Two trains of random, incomplete thoughts, one train of a complete thought.
And there you heard it.
I. She breathes haikus, a tenderness wrapped
around her slender fingertips, pale and cold.
She folds her hands into white gloves, walking
through thin air. She is lost in a photograph,
yet she smiles. But, smiles can deceive.
and they do.
II. I have mirrors reflecting light
reflecting the back of my brain.
He tied his shoes and with his coat
half on, he walks into the cold.
Time grew as only miles do:
cold echoes sinking
hot passions rising.
But oh, how it began. Shoes tied and hands gloved.
III. Suffice it to say, love is not a myth, but a real thing.
This is where love goes:
Blind sexual passion, a stage of seeking.
Felt both for men and women
as a result of the male hormone.
It gets us out to door to find our stimulus,
Our man or woman.
We react in chemical waves, dopamine: the same drug
we see in nicotine or cocaine.
Love is a morphine, a painkiller.
A neutralizer, a doorway to nothing.
It is just an exit song, after all.
You can frown on dopefiends, on crackwhores,
But glass houses, my dear, glass houses.
It is our adrenaline.
It is what makes our hearts race in scary movies,
what makes us run.
what inspires us to go;
or in one case, inspires us to stay.
We never quite reach that first, never that rush.
High again, but every time a little less.
More and more and more we fight.
An ugly dragon: We need more than we can make.
Tolerance has moved in. We are attached
But it's just not the same.
The rainbows, the butterflies, are gone.
Routine settles, annoyances rise.
The honeymoon has ended - the condoms have deflated.
It is a dangerous life, this love.
Many people cannot survive it,
When they develop a tolerance of themselves.
But my dear,
Dying for love is not dying for nothing.
Love is real thing.
It can be tasted, felt, seen, and even bottled and sold.
But perhaps, my dear, this is worse fate.
After all, nobody dies for retailed goods.