is mere
manipulation.
Someone needs something.
You sing them your song.
On another day love
is purely
a possession.
You want something.
Someone paints
your picture.
Graham Foust
and on a third day, maybe, love is frantically chasing your infirm and unemployed mutt around the living room, occasionally trying in vain to shove your hand in his mouth to help him yak up the rib tip he just swallowed whole, the greedy idiot.
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