Love doesn’t happen that way.
It happens this-a way; and I have waylaid
And I am waiting to take
The unsuspecting heart with
Desire and sin. Then, depart.
What is the name history will give me; now
That I have told you my infallible plan?
Schemer? Retriever? Long-boned cheap bastard?
Emmer-effing loser? Or, simply call me
To waylay, at ambush point, speak you
Into it with words. Touch you soft so that
You will close your eyes; that I won’t need to use blinds.
Stare – stare – there I catch you in my guise.
If only you could read minds.
I will release you when the magic’s done
And breathe life into your quivering nostrills.
Release my grip around your waste; slow let you go;
Make myself mimic Prospero. With a touch
Make heal. Cure all ills.