Love is a wish that blesses when it curses.
Love is a dish that’s half-sublime, half-trite.
Love is a play that endlessly rehearses,
Then gets rewritten every single night.
Love is the raw suspense of the pursuit,
The biting thorn chased by the soothing feather.
Love is my shipwreck and my parachute.
I want to be included, not together.
I’m drawn to what is hopeless, vain or doomed.
I crave what sense and sanity forbid.
The loves that didn’t happen have consumed
My hungry soul more than the ones that did.
For love’s exciting—maddening—taboo—
Inconstant—steadfast—kind—like me. Like you.
Copyright 2017 Matthew J Wells