You elusive, impossible, mysterious little shit.
When you think you’ve got it all figured out, love calls it quits.
The purest form is nearly impossible to obtain.
It fills the soul’s reservoir with hope, then uncorks the drain.
The creator of babbling boosie-boo-boo baby talk.
It forges a language only its inventors can unlock.
Drenches us with the desire to sporadically shout it out.
I’m an expert, not at love, but the subsequent fallout.
Absent from the mind is all reasonable thought.
Yet entangled in its web we’re so easily caught.
All the substances on this earth cannot begin to fill
the vacuum in the heart when love’s meaning turns nil.
Imperfect, nonsensical, vocal without one word said.
And even when it’s gone for good, it won’t leave my head.
The word in itself fuels the candlelit glow.
When it bids farewell, thank love for helping you grow.
-Sine amore, nihil est vita-