There is nothing but fiction from our tongues
when they meet in salival corridors.
Grips given from hands to waists brighten
our faces in the darkness of this place.
A mutual delusion built on fleeting fulfillment,
we hold it like a precious stone.
Believe it to be diamond, the truth is only
zirconium in its gleam.
The soul of love is incomplete, it searches
and acts based on educated guesswork.
The mind looks the other way while
the fool searches and laments.
This is a constant condition.
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