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I don't believe in love, I decided long ago: that other hearts were summer heat and mine was winter snow I despised them for their impudence, oh such a long way to go! I bet myself another life that I would never feel too What silly girls and silly boys called 'love', their new- found companionship displayed in sycophantic spew of words and promises that would change next week. I thought myself so strong, compared to them so bloody meek And in every spare debate said as loud as I could speak 'There is no such thing as love' don't you get it? Then one day I found myself dreaming, exam half finished beneath me I couldn't stop imagining your hands on my skin, see? But it faded when those words escaped your lips, so true it must be that I am the only one in this stunted world that feels like that. When dreams flash past I take part, (Shadows of limbs intertwined I alone would call art) . It occured to me as daylight, slick and ever bright Swept away the languid presence, the sloe black, crow black night Something that had nothing to do with my beating heart. I might be wrong. Truth is, I am in lust. Not love, not that patronising knife blade, that ignorant, fetid, unreal stigma, but lust. A real emotion, real, raw and completely deserving of a saint, a day, cards that say what we are too polite to, of songs and books, and precious poems. Lust is all around, and I'll admit to this: I'm falling in lust with you,
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1/23/2021 6:26:55 PM # 1.0.0.425