It doesn’t start with love. Anyone who
says it does is lying through their heart-
shaped tongues, poisoning their
memories, and taking the past as fictional
fact. He or she who remembers love as a
moment full of promise, of perfect first
sight and eyes fixing past the body and the
breast, and the groin is a liar. And let’s be
honest, we’re not looking for that
promised one who will make our lives
worth living, we’re just looking for
someone who we could be giving all our
physical desires on towards – a beautiful
castle with a velvet bed inside.
It’s not outwards we look first, not if we
are honest and we mustn’t look there first
if we want to be a novice in this petty
petulant game of love – bishop takes
pawn, Queen takes king from behind.
So when I looked in to her eyes I did not
see the natural green that glowed so bright
it frightens me how it delights me –
reminds me of fields under summer sun of
my time in France. And her hair as brown
as mine, so divinely kind her smile. Her
voice is soft, carries with it a gentleness I
hope is real. I hope she’s more than just a
beautiful girl. I hope she’s more than a
broken fantasy.
I am tired of waiting for them to see me
too. I don’t love her, but I could.