Putto There, Mr. Valentine

That fat little Cupid, floating on

a cloud overhead, is what’s known
as a Putto. It’s not a Cherub.
It’s a Putto.

It’s a cute little baby angel thing,

designed to appeal to the cuteness
gland in the brain going all the way back to
the 14^th Century.

It makes you want to believe

that the person you love, was
somehow pre-ordained by some
all powerful God of Love to love you.

Through the use of a bow and arrows,

somehow. This person was placed in
your path to love you and be loved by
you. As long as the arrow hit the mark.

Cupid has had some pretty lousy aim

if you ask me. I think Cupid is usually
drunk. He is Post-Dionysian after all.
Or he’s just a baby that doesn’t know better.

Babies, shooting people with love arrows,

all willy-nilly, it’s a damn tragedy. How do
their little baby hands even operate a bow
and arrow? Babies can’t even find their noses.

I’m highly suspect of the whole Cupid racket.

Seems a little suspicious to me. Plus I have all
these arrow wounds all over my body and heart
from all the times Cupid missed the mark.

I mean, I have had some great loves

in my life, but like all arrow wounds,
they can get infected and rot. And had little
to do with a winged baby archer.

The angelic hierarchy has no

sway over the beating of hearts
or whom they beat
for.

No Seraphim, Cherubim or Putto

make the heart leap from ones
chest or thump with excitement
as the site of ones love can.

It’s truly in the eyes,

I know my heart has stopped when
she looked at me with all the love she had
and I recognized it. A bolt of electricity.

Even as those feelings faded, the

electricity waned, I know in my heart
that no arrow could ever pierce my soul
as wonderfully as her eyes.

There is no Cupid, no fat baby archer

to make love exist, there’s only two people,
willing to accept someone’s faults
for the best of reasons. And love madly.