this is what they call love

-

&i’m cleaning out dead melodies

every time i write your name in c0d3d poetic sighs

just protecting your identity with my fingers

from being over e-x-p-o-s-e-d to sickly fickle sheets

and does it really matter anymore ((to anyone))

if we’re making love on paper sheets or on cotton sheets

because love is just a word these days

-

&maybe secrecy is just another s e e – t h r o u g h game

kissed up promises of romance buzzing questions (?)

you always hide the answers in your greygreenblue eyes

it couldn’t have been l o n g e r than a yesterday ago

that you looked up at me and called me beautiful

i remember because the only time you look up at me

is when i’m on top of you, looking down:.

-

&do we really come unstuck on roller coasters

like chipping, bleeding dolls?

disgusted that i ever thought we could use love to hold us together

denying that it might be tomorrow that we crumble

ashes and feathers in one hand and stale kisses in the other

isn’t it funny how the forgotten pawns of love fall away so much faster?

and comedy is waking up to realize you’re dead with your soul escaping through blue tinged lips ((gasp and it’s gone sooner))

when it’s the tragedies that make our hearts go wild and the tears that set us up for flames

-

&this is all i owe you

just one last love poem filled with misconceived accusations

wouldn’t it just kill you to have your heart s/h/r/e/d/d/e/d?

but it would hurt a mile more if i used this single piece of poetry

to paper cut bleed your full heart ((dry))

or perhaps if i just keep snaking like blood through your wrists (full of .f:r.e:c.k:l.e:s. and kiss marks)

until the pain in this delicious venom becomes pleasure

and you’ll feel this torture and your heart can fly up and come crashing down, too

-

&can you kiss me with burning passion?

imagining love that really does what it’s supposed to

this is my last tribute to true love

but i can swear a .t.h.o.u.s.a.n.d. times

and bind every promise with one misery /d/r/e/n/c/h/e/d/ kiss

(aren’t we kissing away pain half the time, anyway?)

this will be my first ode to true torture (love)

-

&i’m still running on left over poetry from this go round with fate

and as desperate as i’m becoming to sweep out these melodies,

(half-infamous-for-their-sorrow/half-famous-for-their-contagious-ironies,)

i’m really still clinging to littlexgirlxprincess dreams

really still dreaming of the next time i’ll hear you sing

-

...and i'm in love

Don't you just hate that helplessness of knowing that THIS is your first real love?

But there's hope. Maybe this is only pretend... Or not. In any matter, this poem is about wanting love to be perfect but knowing that it isn't. So you keep pushing it away, hoping it'll suddenly be fairytale perfect but then you realize the only perfect thing about it is how imperfect it is. And you start saving all those little memories, those little melodies, of the perfect snapshots. And you hoard them and hold them and after a while you start thinking maybe you're only in love with BEING in love. But then you remember. This is true love. And it really does only happen in fairytales so you might as well treasure it while it's here.

Love,

The Fourth Fate

PS-Sometimes I swear, my author's notes are even better than my poems.