french kissing the bear trap

In a lacking of romantic sentimentality she pardoned its glaring absence to endorse a more clumsy brand. A fumbler of words, I was the architect of awkwardness building monuments from moments that made people cringe with wonder. She kissed me as if her lips were life preservers and I was a blue ribbon desire drowning at sea, a sudden embrace like air bags deployed on impact. I would be only too foolish to assume love at first sight forfeits the get to know you phase and flirtatious dinner dates for heaving concupiscence with a stranger. I considered my libido the bedevilling and ungoverned force that far too often hijacks the process of good decision making by corrupting my brain with spam like advertisements, there isn't a unit of measurement to gauge how swift my surrender to carnal desire was. The fluency of our body language formed a narrative so well articulated it precluded any conversation, she made me feel...smooth. There was no mistaking this for anything else than what it was, just an emotionally devoid exchange of body heat. These mindless affairs pay tribute to the reductive power of repetitive failure and its ability to breed indifference, in all my vacancy I guess I still hope,or at least feign it to seem human. Hoping that prick from the haystack is the needle I've been looking for and not another black widow spider injecting its poison.  

The cavity in my chest once housed an incredible heart with walls made from silk and honey, European women dressed in white satin strumming harp renditions of Claire de Lune in the foyer welcoming all with compliments and garlands of joy. There was an apple orchard so ripe and verdant with enough fruit to feed everyone. But foolishly my open door policy gave house to a couple of inebriated clowns juggling chainsaws whilst ridding unicycles , a few wolves posing as very convincing sheep,not before long this wonderful haven looked more like the fall of Bastille. They would complain the fruit wasn't sweet enough or silk was far too abrasive on their skin. After many years of compounding heart break the house became nothing but historic remains of what was once a healthy society of love , the orchard now is just a barren field where soil is salted by lachrymal streams of self pity.

love is a dark room where an old blind man is trying to figure out a thousand piece puzzle of a monochromatic landscape