They defined love right before we knew it;
boxed it, typecast it even before we saw it,
and actually felt it:
bright red silk and sheets
of sun-dried passion;
yet they never told us it could be this painful. 3
What love was once when you were just three,
will never be when paper cutouts of red cardboard
take the shape of perfection:
them hearts symmetrical and ruddy,
ready to make someone smile.
But then they never warned of Rose's thorns. 3
So then in this Feb of hearts,
when bow-and-arrowed cherubs go about,
we go scurrying out in the open -
wanting, waiting... hoping to be hit!
<3 <3 <3
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About Rory Bualan: “I teach, read and write. 😉 …and eat and diet.”
Poetry by Rory Ian Bualan | February 6, 2011