Work Text:
Your love feels like an obsession.
Your obsession looks like love.
You want to have and to hold.
You want to handle and claim.
You want to hide and let be.
Never and forevermore.
You want to cherish and give.
You want to endure and give in.
You have everything you want.
You have nothing worth loosing.
Your fortune looks like loneliness.
Your misfortune looks like karma.
You are a forlorn performer
in the middle of the crowd
of strangers.
Your gregariousness
looks like a lie,
it looks like desolation.
Your solitude
looks like a crime scene:
a plastic suit,
a bloody scalpel,
a cooler full of ice and meat,
an allusion.
Your crimes look like art.
Your art looks like a surreal nightmare.
You can buy whatever you need,
though can't get what you want
for love or money.
You want to see,
you want to be seen.
You want to hear,
you want to be heard.
You want to know,
you want to be known.
You enjoy living.
You aren't afraid of dying.
But nothing else matters,
for there's an emptiness within
you are unable to fill.
You want to voice your joy,
you want to hear an echo
of that joy twice over.
Your life is full.
Your life is a void.
You live half a step away
from everyone else.
You are your own devil
on your left shoulder,
observing everything with a cool,
calculating, indifferent gaze.
Your love is an exception.
Your love is a myth based on truth.
Your love looks like an innocent child.
Your love looks like a bloody revenge.
Your love tastes like a piece of long-pig,
medium-rare.
Your love looks like a forgotten memory.
Your love feels like hope.
It feels like terror,
like impassioned patience,
like a heart attack.
Like a drug.
Like a free fall.
Like bliss and contentment.
Your love smells like a man:
cheap aftershave, sweat, musk.
It smells like an autoimmune disease
you help to cure.
It smells like herbal cigarettes
and wet dogs.
Your love feels like outraged melancholy,
looks like ink on still young skin,
sounds like a famous hit
he unconsciously hums under his breath.
Your love has a pretty face and tired eyes.
Your love sounds like acceptance
and your name on his lips.
Your love feels like not-alone-anymore,
no expectations and ecstasy.
Your love looks like a righteous angel,
does like a fallen celestial,
urges you to live on.
Your love is your personal Jesus,
taking your sins,
making a believer out of you,
adoring you for and despite.
Your love looks like a warrior
with his furry sentry at his feet.
It feels like sand through your fingers.
It smells like blood and death.
Your love feels like loss
or the fear of loss.
Your love feels like gain
and everything you could ever want.
Your love looks like your future husband,
whose kisses paint your lips
with the color of your sins.
It looks like an opportunity
to turn the page and start a new chapter.
Your love has a name.
It sounds determined.
It's Will.