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Yet to Find my Love

Will I be met in a future
not yet determined
by a graceful love interest?
Oh, sweet paramour,
might you caress my heart (perhaps)?
Or is it lunacy to compare
the love of fairy tales
with morbid reality, the taste
of which is never
as delectable. After all,
what is this insatiable desire
called love, but a chemical reaction
of the mind, and like all chemicals,
the drugged effect it induces
offers no reprieve from the reality
we face. Humans are mammals,
and mammals do not
mate for life; nothing
is ever permanent.
It is all make believe,
and I do not know who it is
we are trying to fool, when romantic
couples remain together
for years and years. The fighting;
the bickering; the cheating;
is it not enough to end
a marriage? To sever
a connection, permanently,
with a paramour, turned villain?
Remain together long enough
and everybody becomes
the bad guy; no heroes ever fall
in love. Why bother spending
so much money on counseling
and therapy? The love once felt
died long before the first kiss
was ever implemented.
Maybe, however doubtful
it might be, these are just
my thoughts gone rogue.
Maybe I do not wish
for happiness, but for something
else instead, deep within
the bowels of my supposed soul,
believing myself ripe for suffering,
as punishment, for not
already finding love.