The Aftermath

January 30, 2008
Love is black.

It smells like passionate roses
Dessicating on a virgin's doorstep
After a stormy night.

It sounds like the piercing silence
Never heard in the midst
Of a land of echoing darkness.

It looks like a neverending labrynth
With dead-ends and daggers
At every turn.

It feels like a severed, feeble heart
Left to suffer, and bleed jealousy.

It tastes like a lover's familiar mouth
Belonging to someone else.

Love is a mosaic puzzle
With infinite possibilities...
But no solution.

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