Not scientific,

this thing called love.

It's facets can't be counted,

nor purity rated in carats.

Nonetheless, some varieties of love

are less genuine,

mere imitation of the grand reality.

So hard to tell!

Even the real deal feels

initially

like a stolen charm from a witch doctor,

or the gossip related by your

disreputable cousin,

too delicious to be ignored

and mind-bending to be trusted.

You'll know one day

real love

when you wake up

and find it,

like insidious oleanders,

winding roots in the sewer system,

poisoning the water,

dazzling the eye 

and perfuming the breeze.

Pervasive.

Inescapable.

Incurable.

Even if you wanted 

an antitdote, 

there isn't one.

That's the way you tell.