Liars, All of Them

love poems,
they confuse me.
hyperbole leaks out of letters,
and she walks with an epic ambition.
in love poems, they say the kisses taste like yesterday, and tomorrow and the past, and the future, and some other time that doesn’t exist..
but really, kisses taste like nothing.
the only thing i have ever tasted in a kiss, is the strawberry smell of a lip balm.
and that’s rare.
it would seem that i have only loved and kissed misers!
sometimes, i have smelled piss
in a kiss.
(that was an unintended rhyme.)

the breasts are hardly firm and soft and symmetrical white;
don’t always believe what they say.
the cherry is soft and sour and sharp in taste,
while the honey was lost in translation.
they tell lies, those romantics.

and the kisses-
well, they are wet and sloppy and nosey
unless the hair interferes.
then it’s a battlefield, and
believe me,
men have lost lives.

the best i have ever seen in someone’s eyes
is the darkness of my face.
and i am not one for unflattering euphemisms.
(but i guess, it’s in the definition itself.)
the small smiles are smirks-
because my lips are softer,
and the laughs are apologies-
because my teeth are sharper;
the only blood in love is not the virgin blood on stone…

lost you are in love,
but very literal is the loss:
the way to her house
is a labyrinth
and you are dream and desire in search of destiny’s garden.
and the destination is an embarrassment,
hidden in a thousand excuses.
the daring lost under cruel adult stares.

love poems,
they confuse me,
the hyperbole leaks out of letters
and she walks with an epic ambition.
but they are liars, all of them.

i have smelled piss
in a kiss,
i tell you!
i still kiss…

– Shakya


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