Loving you was like going to war, I was never home for my return.
I had dragged home into the battle field on the front line. The welcome home fire place that burned was an automic bomb of goodbyes that exploded from kissing lips. My arms swung around the cold metal in an intimate embrace, I pulled the trigger in a rainfall of bullets that poured like a storm cloud of cupid’s arrows.
That bastard is a liar.
No casualties found, no civilians harmed just a fist full of lies to punch fluttering butterflies out my gut. Just veterans with ghost limbs to wear like glistening badges of honour, like when our armour was taken off and words fired at bare chests like 50 calibre bullets of feeling and numbness and blood. And a hankerchief to wipe the tear on the skin, to hold the face together. Hold your face up to the one you fight and the one you love with battle scars like a braille erotica novel. Your hand once touched me before your gun did. You once fired my belly with mustard gas, and all butterflies fell to the hard floor to harden, like how all men do after a war.
You’re a cold, cold war. Your fire jet planes disappear into the warmth of the sun but drop heavy, heavy kamikaze pilot corpses. I fell in love with the art of your war, but my only weapon was my self destruction in your cardio vascular muscle, between expansion and retraction, a Trojan horse in the centre of your atrium.
I’m sorry the war had to end that way, but loving you was like a war and I was never home for my return.