It Isn't a House.

I don't know why I wonder  

I do want to know

Is there something to be done when 

you stand there and you see the house you've built

in rubbles? 

Do I just pick up the pieces? 

Do I try to tape the edges together 

or do I just leave.

Quietly

Or do I stay till the rest of it 

falls on me... and I too become a piece 

of another piece of another piece

or do I leave before this happens again and again

Love is mysterious, sure

it is. It doesn't mean what it means

it's like a puzzled puzzle and like a story 

with missing words and a sometimes it's just a word with 

two vowels and nothing else

Love is sometimes just 

and sometimes not and sometimes pain 

and sometimes I have none

I don't know why I wonder but I do want to know

How is it that things just break 

even when they're sitting 

Sitting in some corner 

so untouched- why does it fucking break? 

Why do I have to pick up the pieces of this phantom

faceless, and cruel thing!? 

Do I just leave them there? Do I just let the dust settle 

and from the rain I see what's really left? 

What is love? Why does it have to dictate some sort of story? 

Love is Mystery. But it understands that existing takes more than 

two happy people... If I don't know what love is, I am sure I know 

what love isn't: It isn't a house.