Love is an indifferent beast. It lives in a cave, all alone. Fishing by day; stargazing by night. Its only care — itself. Internal strife, world wars, crisis of conscience be damned.
Not for the faint for heart is its company.
It reeks, it doesn’t bathe, doesn’t brush, likes being “love-d” for itself. And all it can talk about is, well, itself. Love, love, love, oh, how precious I am, how nobody is as lucky as me.
And if you happen to stumble upon it taking a dump in the woods behind your home, just move past it. Don’t shoo it away. Or take pity on it. Or concern yourself with its disheveled state. It’s unkempt hair, tattered clothes, dirty, crooked teeth. Its bleeding heart. Just don’t bother.
Because if it bites you, that’s it. You are done for. There is no cure in the world that will save you from its fate. And you too will find yourself hiding out in a cave, unsociable, happy in your state of disarray. Your heart marching to its own beats.