What They Call Love

It sure is something when one is killed, blindsided - 

he simply does not see it coming.

It is then something else when one can see it coming,

but has not the slightest change or hope in stopping it.

And it is everything when you recognize the approaching,

grave presence of mortality

and have every opportunity to elude its mangled, mysterious hands,

but do not-

rather, finding yourself incomprehensibly gravitating towards,

aching for,

worshipping,

and kissing

them instead,

for a clandestine feeling of greater good.

And that, my friend, is what they call love.