Syringe of Love
Free Verse
A quiet room, shadows dancing on the walls,
the hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
In the sterile air, a sense of anticipation,
a syringe poised, trembling fingers.
Love, like a drug, potent and alluring,
its essence drawn up, liquid desire,
a promise in a glass tube,
waiting to be administered,
to course through veins,
to infiltrate the heart.
The needle, sharp and precise,
pierces the skin, a moment of pain,
a fleeting discomfort
before the warmth spreads,
a fire ignited within,
coursing through every vessel.
Hearts beat faster,
breaths grow shallow,
eyes meet, pupils dilate,
caught in the throes of chemical magic,
the euphoria of connection,
a high unmatched by any substance.
But love’s effects are unpredictable,
an erratic pulse,
a sudden rush,
and sometimes, an overdose.
It can heal or it can harm,
a delicate balance,
a fine line walked.
In the aftermath, as the surge fades,
a lingering warmth remains,
or the cold sting of withdrawal,
leaving scars beneath the surface,
invisible yet profound.
The syringe lies empty now,
a vessel of once potent dreams,
discarded in the aftermath,
of a love administered,
a gamble taken,
in the quiet room
where shadows still dance on the walls.
