Love is a slippery slope.
A fantasy in its inauguration,
A honeymoon phase lie.
A period of chameleon hidden tendencies and camouflaged disguise.
Love at its beginning is a casting call
For the role that best fits your lover.
And then you fall.
From 90 stories up,
A gut wrenching plunge
With a safe facade
That you will be loved.
The fall doesn't hurt.
This much I know.
What comes after does.
The contact at the bottom,
The concrete, finite bottom,
That is what will break you.
Or so I've been told.
Love at its end is a whirlwind.
Of anger and quick tongues,
Of fear and insecurities.
Two souls that reveal their true nature,
Behind the curtain call.
Two lives altered by a concussion.
A concussion called love.
