Like sugar and yeast,
fermented and sweet,
kisses of hers
intoxicate me.
Without them
is a toxic way to be.
Quarantined my mental state
you talk sick to me,
speaking ills
of falling out of love--
now it's "earborne".
i put on a mask to cover up
the pain,
but it does not protect me from catching true love's bane.
i try to conjure a vaccine quick,
but i'd need live virus to work with.
Out of love does not live here--
she was asymptomatic, I was unaware...
infected me with a patented creation of despair.
The distancing makes it worse.
It's funny,
i thought hoax when heard at first--
that you're not in love with me, but you still love me.
No amount of washing can cleanse me of this.
Nor peroxide, alcohol, or sanitizing mists.
I've been contaminated but there is healing.
Be in love with me again and bring back that feeling,
that pierces the ceiling,
shooting up to heaven's vault.
But please no second wave,
next time let's do palm trees and water salts.
Glasses clink, eye glares no blinks.
Slowly lean in closer after a sipped drink.
What happens next you would know, i think.
Like sugar and yeast,
fermented and sweet,
kisses of hers
intoxicate me.