Love

Love was the warmer days my body was aching for.

I longed for her with watery eyes, withering soul,

Waiting, believing that love is a verb,

 That she will eventually come

Show up at my door with eyes more watery,

soul more withering than mine,

saying she can’t bear another moment

without a glimpse of my face.

Yet, my door remained as empty as it was open,

Left me believing that love is a verb, love

Is a verb that is somehow manifested otherwise

As a noun misused,

A metaphor often misunderstood, love

Is an adjective for the lump in my throat

For the excuses she makes when she chooses her friends

Over me, love

Is the word for that sinking feeling I get whenever I realize

I’m not actually included in her life plans.

I thought maybe love was a room I could come home to.

Maybe love was a two-way ticket, a comfy bus ride home.

Or a crowd I could sing songs to and listen wholeheartedly
even if I was off key.

But love is the one who’s off key.

Love is black and blue mistaken for a red one.

Love is the lowest card in the deck mistaken for an ace.

Love is a blatant vanity that feeds one’s self

And effort is like a flower, elegant and lovely

But in due course fades.

And I?

Just another story love holds

Sooner abandoned, later forgotten and

Seemingly nothing more than a hangover she got

From her drinking spree the night before.

But love is a verb.

It arrives, it hurts, it leaves.

Love is a verb.

Love tries, love gives,

Love, loves.

And if love is indeed a verb, I still believe

Love thinks of me in spite.

And one of these days, it’s gonna come

Show up at my door with eyes more watery,

soul more withering than mine,

saying she can’t bear another moment

without a glimpse of my face.