Love is not

Future world

What will it yield?

this obscure concept

Holding its hand

love?

Holding her genitals in my hand

love?

Or his in my mouth

love?

Skulking about her living room 

while she sleeps

when we both know

no one leaves alive

Love?

Ecstatic 

It has filled every spiritual orifice

The one I need needs me

At least until I go to work

Or run out of money

Or get hit by misfortune

Or become helplessly boring

LOVE?

It drips like drool from my mouth in the night

Gushes forth  

Stoic

Holds true in the storm

Yields to my touch

Hushed and still

Only quick whispers herald its advent

Crooked smiles

Thick as thieves 

bathed in prune juice 

Love is not.