Love isn't a slave to gravity.
It's not.

To make it so paltry.
Now, that's almost treason.
Falling isn't the word for it.
But, Fall is. I mean, the season.

Love is the smell maple leaves.

The ones that sway.
From left to right.
Like her hips last Saturday.
... Wait, that was last night?!

Ridiculous, I say!
Where are my wits?
Now, to home I must go, to God I must pray.
I must tear up this poem and burn it to bits.
I cannot. I will not fall prey.
This vixen has leashed me with her tits.
I know her kind. I've heard them say.
She'd break my heart. I'd cry in fits.
She loves Elliot, might I say.
But, logic demands you call it quits.

See, darling, lovers don't reason.
Reason needs to die.
Love is a shout into oblivion.
Whose echo meant us to fly.

Love isn't a slave to gravity.
It's not.

My denial is.

The Relativity of Love

by rickywastaken


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