We don't fall in love, it rises through us
the way that certain music does...
whether a symphony or ballad
and it is sepia-coloured,
like tea that stains as it creeps up
the tiny tube-like gaps inside
a cube of sugar lying by a cup.
Yes, love's like that,
just when we least needed or expected it
a part of it dips into it,
by chance or mishap..
and it seeps through our capillaries,
it clings inside the chambers of the heart
to atriums & ventricles.
We're victims, we say.
merely vessels,
drinking the vanilla scent of this one's skin,
the lustre of another's blue eyes
skilfully darkened with bistre.
And whatever damage might result
we're not to blame for it.
love is an autocrat
and won't be disobeyed.
Sometimes we almost managed to convince ourselves of that.
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