Love Confusion

LOVE CONFUSION

It’s the telling of tales and the naming of parts,

It’s the bad King of Diamonds and the mad Queen of Hearts.

 

It’s two star-crossed players condemned to their rôle.

It’s a soul that’s been captured and swallowed up whole,

 

It’s what’s past imperfect and future perfect tense,

It’s subjunctive mood in an indicative sense.

 

It’s impossible dreams in a world gone half-cocked,

It’s the writing of verses – emotions unlocked.

 

It’s that light in the eyes and the shape of the lips,

It’s the curves of the legs and the flare of the hips.

 

It’s love dipsomania from cocktails and scotch,

It’s dull dehydration in a nauseous night watch.

 

It’s the cascade of hair that curtains a kiss,

It’s each minute we share, all the hours we miss.

 

It’s harmonious trust and the bitterest doubts,

It’s the ‘Don’t let me goes,’ and the cruel turnabouts.

 

It’s golden-ringed blue-grey and envious green,

It’s melting rich reds into purple serene.

 

It’s pitiless, sleep-deprived questions that build,

It’s the debris of nightmares and dreams unfulfilled.

 

It’s the smile on your face when you open the door,

It’s just hoping and needing and yearning for more.

 

It’s that anguish deep down when you push me aside,

It’s the joy that I’ve felt and the tears that I’ve cried.

 

It’s mysterious linkage of mind reading mind,

It’s the passerine muse and the last of his kind.

 

It’s caressing a gift in a delicate hand,

It’s the sharp stabbing pain when you misunderstand.

 

It’s far-distant staring, thoughts miles away,

It’s the moves that you make and the words that you say.

 

It’s those people who ask, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

It’s the tossing and turning in bed through the night.

 

It’s the buzzing of bees and the singing of birds,

It’s emptiness left from the sting of hard words.

 

It’s sociable silence that need not be breached,

It’s intimacy, somehow instinctively reached.

 

It’s the butterfly jangle whenever you’re near,

It’s hesitant steps borne of weakness and fear.

 

It’s the jokes and the puns and the taunts and the tease,

It’s those naughty-nice forfeits, the ardent, ‘Yes, please’.

 

It’s the freewheeling boy in the man growing old,

It’s cartwheeling passion that blows hot and cold.

 

It’s aching desire, the scorch of the heat,

It’s the darkness that dwells at the end of the street.

 

It’s the piper who plays at the Gates of the Dawn,

It’s the plaintive last post of a bugler forlorn.

*         *         *

All this is what living and loving will do,

When the heart’s full of longing and the head’s full of you.