What's It Like to Be in Love?

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.

And write.

And write.

I write as a coping mechanism,

but it hurts me, so should I continue?

I will.

I can make it.

I can do this.

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