Love is not chocolates and heart-shaped candy ,
Nor be it candlelight and eloquent dinners,
In the crowded, glowing midnight city,
Nor be it dressed in soft furs,

For Love is a putrid thing,
Hard on the eyes, void of hair,
Nor be it a reason to spontaneously sing,
It is a thing that is filled with despair,

It is the cold in the heart and the secrets,
It is the warmth of arms around a shivering form,
As the tears fall down cheeks in droplets,
A face buried in a black t-shirt that is making it warm,

It is the look in eyes,
That makes the blood boil,
And the spirits rise,
Makes us dig our roots in the soil,

It is saying, "I love you," |
Twenty or more times a day,
Even when they already know it to be true,
It is running in the rain to play,

It is something unconditional,
Bleeding and raw,
Iternal and final,
A devouring, blackened maw,

Devouring everything in a person,
And holding them prisoner,
Yet somehow having a light brighter than the sun,
It is terribly slender, but never grows thinner,

It is sitting down in bed and looking their eyes,
And knowing secrets about those eyes that would cause them to explode,
And knowing when those eyes might tell lies,
And knowing that, with those eyes, you will travel a long road,

It is curling up next to that warm body,
And the black t-shirt,
Hearing them whisper to you, something ridiculous, but, oh, so funny,
And feeling the lessening of your heart's hurt.

It is the little things,
The beautiful, hideous things.