This is the only one I’ll write where I talk to me.
Even though I love grapes, especially raisins.
And wine? Wine is okay. Secretly,
but like this is a real secret, sometimes, I talk
into mirrors and call her the only one about love.

I flutter when love is present. Get it?
Is any of this confusing?

The reflection in the mirror is
the only one about love.

Even now, I am floating
but only because love
found its way to me
through this fun activity
of blogging.

There I go talking about my experiences
with love. Just the other day
I experienced love and it felt like this.
It felt like just talking just the other day.

There is vulnerability in every moment shared.
There is no blood in my veins only sap.

Okay, did everyone leave? Allow me to create a moment?
To be honest, this love idea is foul.
It is a stain on one’s heart, with this love.
Possibly, it is strain? Sometimes I feel strain.

When writing, this is the moment the writer falls into themselves,
the author enters the ethereal, and love is at the bottom.

Generally speaking, this is all wrong.

And this is a blog? I vent to statistics
and self-promote.