love isn't,

what other people tell you,

while reading sappy love novels,

of slowly developed lisps,

and careful positions,

that rub you the right way,

like you've always dreamed,

it would be,

but our love is fast,

and dark,

except when the moon appears,

and you grab it,

with your bare hands,

and slice it open,

like you can see right through him,

and you laugh with your tears stained,

because he's not what you thought he'd be.

(he's hollow; he's empty)