I know nothing of love.

I know nothing of love.

I am void

I am

untouched

by the brilliantly burning flames of passion

the glowing embers of a rupture 

the continuity of a sentence 

the most beautiful of fragments

the least tiresome of run ons.

I

do not know

the triviality of

a kaleidoscope of monarchs 

inhabiting the space of my stomach

the most desired discomfort

the overinflation of my vital organ

the catalyst to my respiratory function.

I

am unfamiliar to 

the merge of anatomical apparati

the discovery of a purpose

non-existent before.

I

can not fathom

whispered thoughts and unspoken needs

the boldness of a cryptic string.

I observe.

I am silenced.

I know nothing of love.

I do not know if I want to.

Surely all this irregularity

is a disruption to homeostasis.