The Death of Love
by Rachel Marie
Your hands on my waist.
We never dance,
but we laugh.
We laugh at each other.
We laugh at our friends.
We laugh at Love.
We hold him up by his shoe strings
and torture him with jokes and fairy tales
and stale valentines.
Because what you do to me isn't love.
Love does decades of forgetting.
Love does fear and pretense.
Love does anger and hate.
Love does loneliness and disaster.
You do something else.
I'd like to grab Love by the earlobe
and drag him around the room a few times.
I'd like to open a ninth-story window
and drop him onto the pavement.
Don't let my charming cynicism fool you. This is a love poem. I adore Valentine's Day. And I have a half dozen beautiful, romantic poems picked out for this month-long love fest.