The Meaning of Love

The Meaning of Love

London, 25th June 2011

All texts copyright of Christopher Hutchison / Air & Water Publishing Co.
© Air & Water Publishing Co., 2011-. All rights reserved.


I’m finished with love, she said, slumped to the sofa,
her legs drawn up, heels tucked one side.
All lovers are shits who will just fuck you over.
She sipped on her coffee and cried.

Some fuck you with smiles and a script of excuses;
some fuck you with nights all alone;
Some fuck with your head, make you wish you were dead;
Some will dump you by text to your phone.

Some will swagger and brag that they’re this and they’re that,
and expect you to be so impressed;
and you find that they’re just lying shits with an ego
who know all the buttons to press.

And some break your spirit and some break your heart.
Some will slap you about for a laugh.
And some break your jaw and your face hits the floor,
and they’ll tell you they do it for love.

And he tells you you’re witty and clever and sweet;
But it doesn’t do much for your pride
To be told that your body could lose a few pounds,
and he’s shagging your friend on the side.

Or he calls you his angel, and can’t live without you,
his world without you incomplete;
and he swears on his life that he’ll soon leave his wife,
but he’ll dump you the next time you meet.

No, I’m finished with love, she said, smoothing her skirt
round her knees, her eyes glistening with tears.
And she patted the cushion beside her, and smiled,
and I sat there as bidden, all ears.

You’re cute, she said—thank you for being a friend;
thanks for listening. You been really kind.
I don’t know, to be frank, I can face going home.
May I stay here tonight? would you mind?

All I need is a friend, she said, someone to hug me;
I’ve had it with love and with men.
And she fucked me that night and before it was light
she was gone. I’ve not seen her again.