Love, you fool. Love refuses to lull your aching heart to subtle rest. Pearls of salt cling flesh to fabric. It cares not for your comfort. Sleep uneasy. Love is not blissful. A commitment made by the unknowing soul seeking richness from another. Poverty of the mind. Love is decay. A war leering inwardly. It will conquer your kingdom and enslave your people. A summer to end each moment. To tease the longing with promises of a blossoming warmth. Creeping under skin, eroding years of perfected fortitude. Nothing can stand against it should it choose to come. You breathed as though you breathed for two but fall alone gasping, clutching at the wound behind your breast bone. The Arrow. Lithe and elegant. Struck deeply. A splintering hilt with a jagged head. Before you know it, you have transfigured, from disbeliever to a zealot ruled by the unfair god of hearts. Balance. And you beg and you pray for a merciful end. Knees to the sodden earth. You gaze beyond the amaranth and magenta veil of a wintery dusk. You walk the broken glass of heaven barefooted to find chaos and desolation at its gut. The gold glimmer of stars tarnish as the ivory pillars of your temple grow rotten. This is love. A wound forever unhealed. The sweet suffering of beautiful silence. Deep. Shallow. Love is mundane. A sickly sacrifice of mortality without morality. A sphere has no sides. The smile with an agenda. The duel-sided serrated blade. My blood for yours. Love will always win. And yet love is a fool. A child. A reflection of our dance. The Lament of our sorrows. The black poison we had willingly offered to our own lips. Sip quietly in darkness. A flask brimming with memories and tears. Sip quietly. All that could be found now hollow and void. Love. Singularity. Expanding and turning. Warping the things that matter in vortices of brokenness. Binding. Tasting. The soreness of weeping in an airless, sunless room. The disembodiment of wearing a face not belonging to you. Love will shatter manacles but tether with transparent oaths.