Random Leaf #11 precisely cut and recently found IG

I’d prefer

if I

wrote more

of love—

things essential,

things not much

truly, truly

talked about.

Oh, sex

is good—

but love

isn’t always

about pleasure.

There’s more.

There’s always

something more.

And don’t

go on

telling me

there are

untruths better

unknown than

spoken of.

That’s wrong.

That is

very wrong.

Love is

never something

only about

happy times—

the good

times—nor

is it

only about

what makes

us happy.

No one’s

truly perfect—

this is

the truth.

And we,

as humans,

as people,

as ones

with souls—

we are

all flawed.

There are

imperfections, unwanted

patches, bruises

and scars

around us.

These, too,

also matter.

Oh, how

far have

we deviated.

But nonetheless,

I, too,

am capable

of falling.

These horns

and wings

are witnesses,

evidence, and

proof that—

I, too,

have fallen.