when it comes to love

you will speak in clichés
and become fat like a truck
from indulging on a sweet cake
each redundant bite is like a warm touch
that chafes on the crotch
but the sweet taste
coats every suck

and sticks like wet papier-mâché

thus there is no surprise
like a fool drunken to a stupor
you babble away
and bringing your own demise
as spit falls from your face
confessing how it was all for her

for with no if's or but's
you show her how deep the cut
of holding for so long
as you reveal that painful pause
where silence encompasses all space
and guides every trace
of the pen which shapes
that doomed cause
beyond right or wrong
of erasing all doubt
by falling in love.