love works
like a virus—
unseen
and unknown, it grows
without goals;
when it attaches, it
bores down and
binds us
to our skeletons,
to these hard discrete cores
which we'd been
heretofore
trying to keep from
bobbing to the surface.
It is nothing
but a brainless, selfless,
welter of confabulations
which causes us
to confront
and expel
the only other feeling
which, hitherto,
we'd come to know:
the vague prickle
of our
own nauseous longing;
the sickness
of our selves.
