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Its called love

Its called love,
makes you fall to the floor
in agony and pain,
leaves you sitting
with your shoes
kicked off
and depending on the weather;
stockings ripped
or an uneven tan
that melts
into the pavement.

Its being in a club at midnight
when all is starting off,
exchanging kisses
with an unknown drink
that you leave
by the dj's stand
and a guy
you wouldn't kiss
in daylight.

Its pretending
you aren't something plus,
cos accounting is not your style,
you can put two and two
but judgement makes it five
and your alive,
the one you care about
has missed another stop,
its far too late to halt
in the midst of another round,
you'd do better
just to stand your ground.

Its called something fruity
something luscious on your lips,
the hand in the small
and the grinding of the hips,
for a moment you are younger,
stronger in the mall
and thrall of it all.
Still leaves you bleeding
and a reminiscent smile,
you say goodbye with
a dignity, you wish you'd left at home.

Poetry by Elle