love tastes like broken English, feels like jive talk, sounds like the water that sloshes under the pier as you look over the madera at a close distance to the cotton candy. It feels like a cat searching for a warm engine in the winter. Amor ahogado, sin ganas, distracted, over-dosing on false hope and kind words from poets that hide behind sonnets and suede shoes. Lately, love is like, and like is not enough. Love needs suero, a drip bag of aguántate un poco mas. But I’ll wait for a transplant—wait for a donor. And somewhere out there, soon, someone will die of heartache and maybe, just maybe, the donor and I will be a match.