All a Fool Needs

 

Love, as they say, is all you

need, however I am hung up

on the whole concept.

 

What kind of love?

Who loves whom?

What if they love me more than

I love them, or vice-versa?

 

I want to be a loving man,

with a loving woman obviously,

but I’m terrified of being made out

to be a fool.

 

A sucker. A dope.

A duped idiot, conned by

exceptional beauty,

tender nothings and

my own desire to be loved.

 

The rational is needlessly

tormenting me when I’m sure

I should just focus on the moment

and exist in that loving state for

as long as it lasts.

 

But I’m addicted to loving.

A little taste of love, an appetizer,

and I want the whole buffet.

Served in gilded dishes by

the object of my affections

while she continues to seduce me

with her wiles.

 

Even self-perceived wiles,

like lingering eye contact,

a touch on the arm,

a smile,

a kiss on the cheek;

and I’m loving putty in her hands.

 

An amorous goo,

ready to be molded into

the shape she wants me,

until she doesn’t want me anymore.

 

And I return to my pre-gelatinous

state, jaded ever more by my

suspicions about love and

how it’s supposed to be all I

need.  

 

I’d rather be a loving fool,

than a fool for love.