The love letters I keep under my pillow read more like death threats these days
this brings me to the conclusion that St. Valentine and I aren’t on good terms
not now
not ever
and in the midst of this of this tragic realization
I hear what sounds like bereavement at my doorstep
lo and behold
it is Eros.
He arrives to me filthy, bleary, bloody and spent
with no idea he is seventeen centuries too late
and from the looks of him now
he’s clearly a lover not a fighter
but being the son of two great gods
I thought him a warrior; quick with a bow
but no he
is just a
reminder to tend the roses back at the
Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, Rome.
buzzin' 