I’ve been burning cheap love songs like cigarettes. Letting my soul choke on the smoke, just to get my fix. We are all well aware love is a drug. Baby, I’m an addict. A hopeless romantic, shooting for soulmates under star-aligned skies. It permeates my skin like sour beer from a night of doing myself in.

I have chased the siren’s call as I flitted, chasing cars for a muse forever out of reach. Been strung up on compliments only to feel the gallows dropped with words left unsaid.

“I love you.”

The words dripped syrupy out of mouths. Thick like molasses. It always had the bitter taste of copper to me. As if the words mixed and coagulated in my veins. A sanguine covenant.

I have a stitched up heart. They say you have to be broken to let the light shine in, but I don’t know, it doesn’t seem to gleam through the seams. I feel like Frankenstein’s Monster. Afraid of passion. Even more afraid of fire.


The singer croons it to a crowded room. You might be there, but the person he is singing to isn’t you. The person he is singing to left long ago and now he sits in smokey rooms with glasses on. You can see him but he can’t see you. He sings his heart song and the words ring true. But he ain’t singing it to you.

No, he ain’t singing it to you.

Cut from commercial break. Back to reality TV. The whiskey begins to burn with memories of days before. We’ve all had lost. Maybe some have had a bit more. The girl slow dances in a busy bar. The guy hitting refresh on his cellular phone. We’ve all been there, yes I know.

We talk of love like it’s based in reality but all true love has roots elsewhere. In absurdity. It isn’t in The Real World. It grows from inside jokes and the way someone can make a laugh fill your soul. It’s ridiculous moments, like whipped cream on noses and the fits of giggles followed by joyful shrieks.

Courtship- The act of slow dancing in a burning room, just waiting for the flames to consume you. 

Want to talk about love, Kid? You can’t know love until your heart’s so strung out and broke, it finds itself on the corner looking for a re-up. We are lost and losing, looking for signs of love like an exit sign from the caustic feeling of loneliness pervading our day to day. A red glow to warm our bruised and beaten souls.

Well, I have been sitting here sifting through nostalgia like maybe I can find gold in all this soot. My heart’s still beating, gently coupled with this jagged breathing. Love won’t kill me yet. I need my fix, just enough to get me off.

Love has always been about getting off. It’s a sordid affair. A tryst. One night stand here. Lonely nights there. Looking for love vacancy signs on cheap motels. All the while pretending the destination was The Ritz. We just want to stay warm on cold nights and most these beds were built for two. For you. For me.

I’m burning through lovers like matches. With a trepidation that love might kill me yet. We’ve blurred the lines of love and lust, hoping we get that one off. That needle in the haystack. The long legs like the yellow brick road.

Someone take me home. I’ve had enough to drink from the well of romance. You can find me in the corner, reciting Shakespeare with flawless iambic pentameter.

It is the east
And Juliet is the sun. 

I’m singing my heart song to a smokey room.

Briton Underwood, better known as Punk Rock Papa, is a parent above all else. When he gets sick of being at their beck and call, he likes to escape to his page or site. He writes about any and everything he wants, but mainly about his twin boys or his newest addition- another boy. He also would like the world to know he has a beautiful wife, because the couch isn’t that comfy.


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