His love is all possession and control.
My love is help and generosity.
His kisses touch your skin and not your soul.
Mine start with soul and seek transcendency.
His love sees how you look, mine who you are.
His love is deep,
but shallow next to mine.
His love is warm, but mine’s a blazing star.
Mine sees an
equal, his a concubine.
His love may stand tall now, but it will slouch
Till derring-don’t
replaces derring-do.
His love will wind up sitting on the couch
And stare at quarterbacks instead of you.
Mine is a love that bleeds, but never
mourns,
Because I even love you for your thorns.
Copyright 2017 Matthew J Wells
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