Love is not a get well soon card upon my desk
when I do not consider myself sick.
It is the admiration of uncommon thoughts
and the adoration of tired eyes
that another may call sad, or haunted, or aged,
but love calls "mine".
It is not the burning agoraphobia on my behalf,
nor the fear of the lips of another's kiss,
but the absolute trust with which love sends me
from departure to departure into foreign nights,
and the trust with which love accepts me upon arrival.
So why is it that "love" takes hold of my hands so gently
before confessing its belief that my mind is unwell?
The rhetoric that pierces my eyes
is useless to me -- completely useless!
Love has yet to figure me out completely,
is always lost in discovery,
dripping obscure colours upon my chest with careful brush strokes
to see what pictures will appear
rather than mapping out my every scar
like the lines upon an embattled face.
"Love" keeps me in a cage to view me,
to study me,
handcuffing me to its green ambitions,
rather than allowing me the freedom to bleed
from paper cuts upon my hands as I fold aeroplanes,
before flying through a thousand gates but always returning --
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