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By Dominic Vitz
i stare at coffeeshop windows in summer.
who will fall next? such questions i ponder
as cupid’s matches ignite lovely little pyres
‘round which two people stare and admire
and dance, tripping out on each other.
they sprawl out onto streets, undercover,
and guarded by embraces: of love or fear
who is to say?
here, the love-lorn seek a seductive high.
i wonder if past pain is what they deny
as they huff burnt pages of sentiment
(i suspect) to disguise waves of regret.
they’re crushing sweetheart candies
to align and inhaling rose petals via reeds.
with lipstick smoke opening their eyes,
they label it psychedelics, but i only espy
psychosis.
onlookers, allured by the soulmate game
become gladiators & hunters, minus aim.
their half-baked kindnesses & gift-giving
reveal we’re hooked on feeling feelings.
it’s all a masquerade ball, rendering us performative
and reliant on tightroped trust.
the mistaken rhymes and missteps echoed
show we’re all afraid of being alone.
perhaps humanity knows nothing else.
overdosing on love has become the norm;
affection vanishes in life’s thunderstorms.
when we use care to cope and enjoyment
to escape, the world seems a torment.
to love or not: both ends’ inspire
humans as they spiral into passionate fire.
though some doubt, many have said
to never give your heart away; instead
shove it in a bottle and wash it to sea.
lock your heart away and toss the key,
then your wounds will never quite bleed.
sailors devise maps, space spent
on narcissistic imaginations, nonexistent
patterns, and naive fantasies —
these too cause the young lover’s tears;
he seeks love to mask his blurry fears
and imprison himself in his insecurities.
x on a map marking the buried bottle —
it’ll become a child’s plaything, coddled:
a vessel to escape future heartbreak
buoyed by your own pains and aches.
still, i worry I’ve indulged in self-delusion;
tis a crime of which none are excluded.
so i surrender myself to experimentation
undergoing litmus tests of emotion:
conducted to escape risky love potions.
i’d rather suffer from artificial inebriation
than fall, ensnared by lovely illusions.
after all, the mind never fails to deceive
while we breathe lies through our teeth.
recall that the heart, the ficklest of guides,
remains blind and never satisfied.
nevertheless, second thoughts intertwine
with the boldness brought about by spine.
maybe, the despair drugs my mind.
perhaps, i choose pessimism over hope.
one day, i could happen upon a home.
i do believe love persists; else, life’s a knot
wherein the meaning exists for naught.
Vivid and true