I write about love too much,
although that may be a good thing
to talk about.
What’s it like to be in love?
The thought pains me, but
also intrigues me.
Watching the people around me
love and laugh with each other
makes me wonder.
Can I feel this way too?
I know I am just a configuration
of carbon and bad ideas, of cyanide
and suicidal tendencies, drowning in
alcohol and expired antidepressants,
unable to breathe and walk by myself.
But can I feel love?
I think I am in love with a woman
who has the guts to pick me up and hug me,
to ignore the grime and sweat, to kiss me, if
even for a moment.
She is my everything, and she has a problem
with getting close to people.
I am full of hate and sorrow,
yet she chooses to stay.
Is that a sign?
She’s moving at the end of the year,
although to where I do not know.
If we stay together until then,
and if I haven’t told her, I will
tell her I love her before she leaves.
I can’t deal with the thought of losing
her, so I write.
I write as a coping mechanism,
but it hurts me, so should I continue?
I can make it.
I can do this.