In the bedroom there is an awkwardness
it resembles a joke at a funeral.
Funny it may be,
but oh-so inappropriate.
The celluloid love stories only show a place of sanguinity
Lovers bask in blue moon light giggling as if the walls themselves were comedians
Or they have the sweetest, most choreographed, faux sex the world has seen.
Never silence, never that awkward feeling
Never that tidal wave of nausea which locks you down
Never does the bed seem to sprout hands that pinch your legs.
Rarely does the ceiling turn into a maniacal serial killer waiting to cut your heart out.
Soon the existential tragedy sets in and you lack a view of reality.
I wish for metaphysics.
Because I want to believe in Love.
All I get is blank sheets of ice
as Sartre crucifies Plato
and Nietzsche’s mustache replaces God.
In the void of human silence I bask
It makes a hot summer’s night
fill with a chill that aches the bones.
Breath starts to fog
As my heart freezes over
Is this the ice age of Love?
It’s time to build a fire.
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