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.

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