Suppositions on Life, Love, War, Sex and Bureaucratic Coffee

I suppose One must wonder if this is love or war If your skin on mine is creation or combat Sparing or sex But they're not that different I suppose Same story with a different end But even there though If you look just a bit too hard There's no way to really know for sure Whether it's fireworks or bombs sent to quench our darkness Bursting in air showering us in fire to help us understand But does it really matter to the darkness how it is broken? For afterall We'll both end up dead, you know And fade in to nothing more than a smudge of black and white ink First spilled into memory, left to dry and then brushed away into accidental recollection On a long lost manilla envelope that might contain something important If we're very lucky In a grey bureaucratic heap topped with the nest of a balding grey bureaucrat The type with blood more closely resembling ink than anything truly breathing Caught screaming Laughing Asking Crying Sighing Anything truly living To whom fireworks are no stranger and more despised than bombs And this silent war waged between our eyes As we fight kisses Or blows Not that it really makes a much of a difference, anyway At least no more of a difference than hand-holding makes to death Is simply another anecdote stained with the coffee Spilled while he was caught up in the cascading swoop of her rosy blouse down her pale breasts As she leaned absentmindedly alluring over his desk Now lost in the dusty mental file cabinet reserved for things not to be allowed to spill dust on fantasy Locked up in the ever expanding chambers of bureaucracy or humanity Whichever is more dreaded This, you see, Grey death and bureaucratic coffee, This is the inevitable And love or war are nothing but simple means A how to a why we can never know And despite how long we wonder on it a how without a why Is nothing more than that balding bureaucrat's spilled coffee without pale breasts to make it memorable It is no question anymore than spilled coffee is a memory Though I suppose the answer, the why?, must be simple in the end Designed to make the discoverer wonder how he could have been so stupid Or perhaps it's simply invisible and we trip over it every morning Somewhere between shimmering screaming digits and churning hot coffee Either way I suppose I'll never know Maybe Just maybe I'll just have to learn to live in this love and war And just hope that ignorance isn't as dangerous to me as curiosity is to kittens