I don't believe in love, I decided long ago:
that other hearts were summer heat and mine was winter snow
I despised them for their impudence, oh such a long way to go!
I bet myself another life that I would never feel too
What silly girls and silly boys called 'love', their new-
found companionship displayed in sycophantic spew
of words and promises that would change next week.
I thought myself so strong, compared to them so bloody meek
And in every spare debate said as loud as I could speak
'There is no such thing as love'
don't you get it?
Then one day I found myself dreaming, exam half finished beneath me
I couldn't stop imagining your hands on my skin, see?
But it faded when those words escaped your lips, so true it must be
that I am the only one in this stunted world that feels like that.
When dreams flash past I take part,
(Shadows of limbs intertwined I alone would call art) .
It occured to me as daylight, slick and ever bright
Swept away the languid presence, the sloe black, crow black night
Something that had nothing to do with my beating heart. I might
be wrong.
Truth is, I am in lust. Not love, not that patronising knife blade, that ignorant, fetid, unreal stigma, but lust. A real emotion, real, raw and completely deserving of a saint,
a day,
cards that say what we are too polite to,
of songs and books, and precious poems.
Lust is all around, and I'll admit to this:
I'm falling in lust with you,
(just don't quote me on that.)