Mr. Love

The smell of you is endrenched in my nostrils.  I can't seem to make it go away.  Even the aroma of shrimp scampi, cooked the way you used to for me, settles on top of, but never erases, the smell of you. So beautiful you were with your crooked teeth.

That night I spotted you across the pool hall, made my way to you and asked, "Wanna shoot one?" I had no idea I'd be the one you'd shoot; with an arrow straight from Cupid's bow. I don't love often but I always love hard; as hard as you rode your Harley, as hard as you looked at me when I said "I love you", and as hard as I fell when you left the poem I wrote you at my back door."

And why, oh why, did your actual name have to be Love?  Such a cruel cosmic joke to have to admit to myself that "Love" don't love me.  Were you a ficticious character, Mr. Love?  Did I make you up? Was I blind or could you just not see?  It wouldn't be so bad but I'm always...dreaming...of you.