Does it matter if it’s love or not?
When I see you, it’s as if
Cupid himself shot me with his arrow,
all the whilst grinning at his latest victim.
(sometimes I can still feel the tip of it,
the spearhead breaking through the skin
of my left breast,
bright blood shining wetly)
Looking at you is trying to stare at the sun;
to glance any longer is blinding.
You remind me of sun-soaked summer days,
the sweet sigh of mint-flavored kisses
and smiles made in the dark.
I could drown in the dark tresses of your hair,
twine it around my unworthy fingers
and feel its silken strength.
I am enamored with the way your lips curve
whenever you speak,
the subtle glint of mischief in those
heavy, shadowed, eyes,
and how the whole of you
is trying to rouse my very tired heart.
Darling, your mere existence makes it hard to breathe.
YOU ARE READING
Love Games
PoetryA compilation of poetry about destructive love, on how it dooms and redeems us in the strangest of ways.
