to hope to be made happy

I am suspicious of love on the best of days, but sometimes its thrown about like so much confetti. White paper promises clouding the breeze, impairing the clarity of the view, and ultimately destined to clog the drains.

On days like these, days like today, the word is repeated so often it loses all meaning. It is reduced to a series of letters, or even less - to a series of shapes that barely recall what they used to represent.

The L becomes a corner, one fourth of nothing. A bookend without any books to prop. A right angle, but what about the wrong angles?

The O becomes a frame around a picture torn from view. A black hole. A mirror to show you whatever you want to see.

The V becomes the tooth of the vampire waiting to bite. The tip of the sword perpetually suspended above your head.

And the E the empty fork once the food loses its appeal. The spiky trident of our over-heated friend downstairs.