Love, who doesn’t know it,
And yet who doesn’t get into a knot by it.
The polite enquiry is just a bomb,
It detonates inside a closed room called the soul.
And you fall with parachutes in your heart,
Until you’re where you want to be,
In orbiting gold rings. Until that point,
You’re just an honest drone,
Making the queen, fatter in love.
The apiary, your love shack.
Waggle dance is done together,
Like a bedtime tango, naked in execution.
A drum, it doesn’t play by itself though,
It needs a telekinetic intervention,
A drummer is pure psychic,
Just ask anyone who is capable of falling in love.
And that question of courtship,
It is still just like in Austen-land,
Pride and prejudice, hurdles to coupledom,
Having all your curtains drawn.
Rapture and rupture,
Are separated by one merciless word,
“No” which stands on the tip of any tongue,
As a dose of deadly arsenic.
A dead end looms like a moonless night,
A blackout of hope and still,
You wake up the next morning,
Looking out through a window to see
A whole new world, just like how,
The apple tree in your backyard,
Is full of ripened apples.
What you failed to see, in your blindness,
Which is really, the only essential criterion,
To being, head over heels, in love.
Amour, at best, is a two-way blind,
Jump starting customs of bedroom Braille.