Let me tell you about this love.
Love, like the impressionist shimmer of a streetlamp reflection in black puddles of melted snow – vague, beautiful, and uncertain. Love, like lukewarm bathwater, the ring around the tub, wet footsteps leading back to the bedroom, the air-dried bodies on a dirty duvet cover. This average love at 98.6 degrees, not too hot and not too cold,
This love, sinister underneath the first layer of flesh, but no one knows. Wild behind irises, and maybe some might catch glimpses of the crazy when pupils dilate wide enough, but nobody can see in a room that dark, anyways…
A love that strangles in private, but she wouldn’t complain, even if she could catch enough breath to do so. A love that cuts and slices through arteries, but he thinks the high from bloodletting is worth it.