Love is a field of dandelions
Existing peacefully and uncontestedly between two amicable countries.
Love is a legume, a life choice for a vegetarian,
Sometimes filled with the rotting black of seeds
And sometimes not.
Love is the stuttering amber shards struggling to set logs aflame.
But there is no oxygen, no air,
And no vocal stylings of the great Jordin Sparks.
Love is water, a lake speckled with the innards of fish
and the regrets of the couples who
always failed to recycle their plastics.
Instead recycling the remains of their destroyed relationship
On a two-person trip to Sandals
Only to realize the empty seat next to them on the airplane
Will be filled with nothing but self-hatred for the next five to ten years.
Love is sanity, the thwart of creativity
It brings nothing but the stability of marriage
And an infant screaming
In a gender-neutral yellow baby carriage.
Love is a chore, a mindless act of repetition,
Never intriguing and never thrilling,
Take me now, the lover yells, into boredom’s depths.