Most people wear their love on their eyelids.
It fits well on on our half moons and sometimes sun. Illuminates whom it inhabits as it forces their eyes to close until they start dreaming of things beyond rabbit holes.
But you, you my darling, wear it on your shoulders like forgotten burdens.
You’ve become condemned to a love, and what a tragic thing that is.
What a tragic day it is, when a love becomes our damnation.
A damnation wrapped up in lipstick and pretty things.
Wrapped up in you,
and eventually and inevitably wrapped up in someone else on your counter top.