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“The Price Love will probably kill me, Long before I fell out of it, Or madly in with another. It will rush like a red hand, With doubt and steady stillness, Of another lover into something else. It will kill with everything, But a feeling of full self-despair, And a moment of bitter nostalgia. Love will probably kill me, Leaving everything I am behind, Or giving me anything I owe it in return. It will blush my cheeks with tenderness, Wailing my veins into stray lines Of another’s love, an undying lie. It will be neither slow nor gentle, But rushed into words and memories, And give out nothing but love, again.” — Laura Chouette
The Price
Love will probably kill me,
Long before I fell out of it,
Or madly in with another.
It will rush like a red hand,
With doubt and steady stillness,
Of another lover into something else.
It will kill with everything,
But a feeling of full self-despair,
And a moment of bitter nostalgia.
Love will probably kill me,
Leaving everything I am behind,
Or giving me anything I owe it in return.
It will blush my cheeks with tenderness,
Wailing my veins into stray lines
Of another’s love, an undying lie.
It will be neither slow nor gentle,
But rushed into words and memories,
And give out nothing but love, again.