Love is my weakness,
like cutting Samson's hair
or kryptonite to Superman,
contaminating Clark Kent's lair.

Love defeats me easily,
like Achille's heel
or Siegfried's back,
or the mistletoe arrow shot at Balder,
in Höd's innocent attack.

I am Love's victim,
Lincoln to your Booth,
Medusa to your Perseus,
or Iago to Othello,
when the General learned the truth.

I am a masochist of Love,
relishing its joyful pain,
the heartbreak and the sadness,
the bittersweet refrain,
until that love is truly lost
and new love starts again.