Love waits not for those of us with lesser to spare, for we own our prejudices and nothing more. I suppose love is, in itself, an act of valor, an act of communal defiance to overthrow that which oppresses us. If we died tomorrow, we will have loved another, straightly, simply.
Sometimes, it’s not as simple as I make it out to be. What I think of as love could be something else entirely.
Sometimes, the complexities of the deceptively mundane confound, and leave no choice. I’m stricken to move, as I think movement implies progress. Meaningless motion equates to nothingness.
Is my conceptualization of said love not love at all? It could be another thing oft mistaken for this precious commodity. It could be its disreputable sister, lust.
Lust waits not for those of us with lesser to spare, as the more we have, the greater our need for misinterpreted desire. It is erroneously consumed whole, leaving an aftermath of failure.
Life is little, but more. There is life before and after both sisters. Life remains, regardless.
Earth-bound riddles betray me this night.