Love has ceased to inspire me.
It commenced with a year full of promise;
perhaps because of the many thorns
that seem to prick me.
To plan all things eventful;
To teach at the height of recession;
To flirt and be crazy about touch;
To travel from the watchmaker's embrace to the midwest where winds gush.
What about the time when I couldn't take the distance?
Or the time when phone calls never seem to end?
Or when I was one of the few good things the year has given?
I realized they're just a figment of my imagination.
But love or the possibility of love is only coated and blind
when the spirits are high and way up
in the sky, un-dampened, seemingly full
of colorful kites and warm breeze.
Then the thunderstorm appears
to sweep and clear up the bright blue sky.
The mind can likewise very well think:
no clouds of doubt or cobwebs to confound.
That is when it hits me with a quiet but hurtful stab;
That love has died, and so did life.
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