Love is a luxury few can afford,
The greatest drug to take when you are bored,
Love is a death in the middle of your life,
The secret you keep from your friends and your wife.
Can you afford sleepless nights?
A mountain of sorrow and slights?
Call it a luxury, don’t call it mad,
Call it the greatest happiness possible when you are sad.
Call it kissing, don’t call it speech.
There’s nothing to say. When you reach
This height of luxury and cannot afford more,
Kiss her again and call her a whore.
Why is there insult? Because love is not polite.
It’s not reason. It’s not day. It’s night.
There are some things we cannot buy,
Though marriage and prostitution will try.
But love? Who can possibly purchase this?
It’s not a look, or a sudden kiss,
It’s death itself in the middle of life,
The secret you keep from friends and wife.
