how we glamorize
the groundlessly romantic;
reckless
to find ourselves
so swept up
in the dangerously
doe-eyed
side of fascination.
Though stilted
and miserly, how much
wiser by far
to stuff the soft
caresses and
intoxicating liquors—
to shun
the perkiness
of flowers
and the amorous
light verse of
sentimental cards?
For love is no
warm feeling; it's
an existential gesture—
a chagrined-but-willing
yoking of your slender,
feral welfare
to the equally meager—
and no less unruly—
progress of another's.
