I was in love with the idea of love,

And once the veil of reality was lifted

I realized such reckoning was absolute

   When cuddling the idea.

I became intimate with the concept of love

Where an image grew from words in writings,

And the seeds of this image increased

   Uncontrollably out of proportion.

I became obsessed with a painting of love

Where every stroke had a purpose,

   Where every line was precise,

And every color was perfect.

Details were specifically placed

Where they had been percolating

   From the flavors of fantasy,

And pure imagination.

I became drawn to this image, this idea,

Which now flourished in my thoughts,

   And in-so-doing betrayed myself

By the mirrored reflections of a dream;

With all of its beauty and radiant colors

Shimmering and shining

   I became content by what I would embrace

In the end to be merely an idea of falsehood

Lingering in perfume of promises.

I replaced this painting

   With an abstract clutter bound in frame

Though the idea itself

I may never be able to entirely refuse.