Don’t speak to me of love. 
On your lips that word sounds like a poison.
A fixed up spike of poppy blossoms.
Intent to take you high 
Then bring you crashing down so hard, you thought you died.

Don’t speak to me of love. 
On your lips that word sounds like a sickness
In which the hopelessly afflicted 
Stumble aimless through their lives
So that your kind can feast on hearts like mine.

Why must we speak of love?
Always speak of love?

I know a place where the grill smells like onions 
And charcoal and liver and eggs.
And the coffees not good but the second cup’s free 
And the waitresses call you by name.
And you can sit at the counter and no one asks questions 
And you never have to explain 
And nobody knows about little dark secrets 
And you can start living again.

And no one speaks of love, 
Pain and anger wounded pride or madness.
No one ever speaks of love.
They lounge in languid light and sip on bitter coffee dregs
And sadness.<br />
			         <br />
			         Thanks to Sue