Love is all flesh and blood.
Love is carnivalesque.
Love was not born in the church.
Love is deceit. Love is conceit.
Love is not the smile but the snarl within.
Love is not in sweet lilies and or tender poems.
Love is tactile and severe.
Love is in duels and stains.
Love is in creaked doors that open nowhere.
Love is not in sandy beaches or moonlit walks.
Love is the three dots that killed Mansfield's fly.
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