Romantics

I know how you resent smoking, but what if
I was to tell to you that my love for you was
eternal, and as I said this, I took a long drag from my favorite
menthol flavored cigarette, would you still resent smoking?

Or what if I, on double bended knee, admitted to you just
how pointless my life would be if you were to leave me.
What if I told you this after I took an obnoxious sized sip of my favorite Bourbon.
I know how much you hate me to drink.

What if that happened?
What if I could only be truthful while hurting you?
Would I be a selfish lover, or a thoughtful fool?

Or could it just be that I require my feelings to be masked and
riddled with chemicals in order to coax my fear of loving another human?
Upon the validity of my words tonight,
I will hurt this time,
but this time,
I am clean.

For reasons unknown to myself,
I cannot put the words together in a sentence,
to tell you
just how I feel.

I recoil at the sight of us,
locking eyes,
but this comes with the highest and sincerest form of flattery.
I fear spewing incorrect logic of how I perceive our love,
what my idea of romance is.

I am the homeless man on the street that pedestrians and tourist avoid making eye contact with.
I come flawed.
You appear perfect to me.
But you are flawed as well.
Your only mistake was choosing to love me.

Photo Credit: -cfs- via Compfight cc