love is... [ unappreciation.]

my skull is a bone-white ashtray of painted memories
you delve inside me, instictively
while all i am is sex and bones &&
the need for an otherness to take my sobriety
&& call me confident,
call me social on the end of a dead-line number.

i'll wrap my translucent infatuation around the hope
that someday love-heart truths will run me down
like an omnipotent disaster.

And you,
the perfection (held but not accepted)
who scattered yourself into 'maybes'
&& out-lined with a wannabe------

are you all black and orange?
a cynic in the lost-romantic's body?

because love:
is putting his happiness above anything
that could ever mean the world to you.

It's the whole submergence of myself
an absorbtion of your appreciation
on my tongue like the acid tabs
&& countless happy-pills...

could you? could we be happy?
could we be?
are you?

happy.

my mind is a sweep of insignifcence
we are grounded by an need for

perfection

you are.

and i never will be.