What do you know of love?
What is there to know of it?
An act of appropriate pointlessness, no?
If only to win your favour.
What then, if you win mine?
Oh, you make things so deep and dull.
Smiles and tears, oceans and memories
Flapping colours of butterfly-wings.
Do you know what this means to me?
Exaggerations and embellished truths?
No, dance and colours and poetry.
And these will exist without love.
Your words are acts of purest conceit.
Isn’t Love the essence of sacrifice?
Love robs the world of selflessness.
We certainly do amplify well.
This is no way to treat a fever.
This, perhaps, is not farewell?