people fall into love, they say

they are falling

(their entire lives, really)

into misfortune and luck and the lucky ones

the lucky ones, oh, they fall into love

right into it, hitting and blooming like a

sordid bloom of bloodred and heart and

breathless, the air crushed right out of you

a delightful little wonder

and then there are the people

who are like myself and

who don’t fall anywhere, not nearly

quite as easily or effortlessly

there are people like us

who have love slap us in the face

leaving a red imprint and a lingering sting

there are us who have love

beat us and abuse us and dump us

head over heels

(again)

into the next person and then

there are those who

(like me)

are so full of marks and lashes

and scars and callouses and bruises

that love in its scarlet bright sympathy finally

takes mercy and upends into

one more pulsing heart

one, last beating life

there are those who don’t fall into love

but rather, have love throttle into them

those who are full of love’s ravaging fury

and full of broken pieces

those who love throws one last whirlwind at

a love to end all loves, to pick up the pieces

and glitter them against the sun

those who love is tired of playing with

as it capers off, crimson-flame and full of

smoky illusions and the sear of fire

(bright and smoldering)

in search for a new, naïveté heart

one more diamond in the rough

to engrave its signature upon.