But still...

Love goes wrong on a daily basis.
Usually on timetables like buses
or planes.
Scheduled, but chaotiked, like all
the things we try so hard to control –
knowing for damn we can’t.

Love is the thing we want to posses.
To put on display like a living, colorful
butterfly.
Flapping its wings against the pin.
Against the killing board.
Futile to catch and hold –
either it dies, horrifies or escapes.

Love leaves us on dazzling edge –
wishing for wings but knowing only the reality
of lead feet.
Love is The laughter: joyful or jeering.
The tears: sweet or bitter.
Love is The heaven we seek,
or The hell we hobble from.

but still…

we want.