Probably not the right place for poetry, but here I go anyway.

Of all the things I miss about love,

I miss the desperation of it the most.

Now that I am old and weary, I realize

nothing reaches the well-tucked crevices

of one's heart quite like the desperation of love;

in these crevices were once emotions akin to gold dust,

and these oozed out like blood from a narrow wound

through the webbings of my heart

into songs of long-forgotten despair and longing.

I miss the vulnerability of this desperation for love.

I have now lost the vocabulary of love,

back then -- as Bob might say -- I contained multitudes.

None of that concerns me now, not even chemical accidents.

My love now spikes like the cardiogram of a dead man;

wretched is the price I paid to not hurt.