What love isn't

Love is nothing like
eating marmalade in June,
when the hot summer melts your skin
and you take a bite
out of that half-turkey, half-tuna sandwich,
while reaching under your skirt
to seize an orgasm
over a John Grisham thriller.

Love is nothing like
toying with the croutons
in your not-so-fresh garden salad,
while the waiter sings to you
the bill, overpriced as always,
and underquality,
like your current state of fashion.

Nor is love anything like
whispering in the telephone,
with your gaze locked on the television
and your favorite porn star smiles at you
like rainbows in September,
when this delicious bit of gossip
pops in your ear, and you exclaim
with a frightful "Oh!"
that someone you weren't expecting
was at the door.

No, love isn't like that.
It is never a thrilling book,
nor an excellent pair of boots,
nor the surprise guest
you've been waiting for all your life.
Because you like them all,
and that's fair enough,
but love isn't fair and love isn't like
and love is never enough.

Love isn't what you like about love and name,
but everything else you can never explain.