Oh but it’s
not the love,
The love is
Sometimes it makes you feel like a tiny grape,
Crushed simply by their forefinger and baby thumb,
Your fate exposed and lying helplessly in the power of
Whom you could raise to the sky and still not achieve the
gratification they deserve,
Oh it’s not the love.
It’s a fact.
Their thoughts don’t waver on you throughout the day,
Praying for your happiness, like you for them.
It’s the difference.
That when you pass them by and smile or say ‘hi’,
They won’t grin about it for hours after.
They may not grin about it at all.
And that fact drives a giant punched hole,
Through the centre of your heart.
This person will fill up the hole.
But this hope turns to longing,
And this longing turns to aching.
And this aching causes something greater,
Expanding with time.
Until it makes you want to fold away your entire being,
The fact is...