Cure
Love is like a sickness.
It spreads hand to foot to heart.
Those butterflies in your stomach. When you know something is wrong, as you sit there, waiting for the bad news.
At first they tell you there’s a chance. That they can beat the darkness rotting deep inside you.
Then, it’s over. You’re alone, and the promise to be friends is drowned by the need to be alone in your darkness.
Eating you away. They tell you it’s the end.
But even the hope of remission, the intermission, and the finding of a cure again, is lost.
Something goes wrong and the cure no longer works, as you feel the blackness again.
Love is like a sickness.
It keeps on returning.
Until the real cure is found.
So here’s to you ladies
and the losers that lost you,
the lucky men that have you,
and the lucky bast--ds who have yet to meet you.