Lend a hand to someone in need of love the way a prostitute would.
Those of us with any sense know that love is just
an open room waiting for the right tenant
to inhabit it, ruin the carpet, stain the walls and leave its underwear on the kitchen floor.
Chances are you’ve met love; near the alleyway by the school gates, pie-faced next to a stranger sipping a cocktail with a sprinkle of pixie-dust just to spruce up the night.
We all hold to moments like memories, knowing full well that even they will fade.
That’s not love.
Love was my mother’s cry in the morning,
As my father prized her from the wooden floor, softened her tears with his palm, peeled away the soiled garments
and cleaned the feces that woke her in the first place.