Love

It's not a poem. Hell, I'm not sure what to call it. I wrote it at 3 am last night, about 5 minutes after it popped into my head and I realised that if I didn't write it down I'd forget it by morning.

So if anyone knows what to call it, let me know.
Anyway, here it is:


What know I of love? I who've kept company with more comely maidens than angels could imagine. I who've woken many a time in the embrace of a lass met only in passing the eve before.
You ask me of love when I've slept in the arms of countless lovers. No, not lovers...lusters...whose arms speak of nothing but the desire for pleasure. Whose eyes look no further than the next morning. But to be held in the arms of a true lover, arms that speak of affection more eloquently than words, the merest touch being a promise of forever...
What know I of love? Sadly, not a thing...