Love makes the blood run through our veins,
burning icy hot fever to our heads.
The three words used far too often mean the world to one
but not the other,
etching scars into our hearts.
Love leaves us bleeding in the mind, body, and soul,
like someone stabbing your chest, over and over again.
Now matter how hard the dagger pierces through us, we don't
die.
We can't die.
Love is the bittersweet suicide we succumb to, never
leaving us the same.
Much like footsteps left in wet cement.
Soon to dry and crumble as cracked memories.
The memories nobody sees as anything,
but the sole of a sneaker ground into the ordinary mud.
Love is nothing, until it happens to sweep you off your own feet.
I feel like I’m stuck, running in circles. I’m gaining none, but losing strength as I keep trying to find something. I don’t know what it is, but it’s missing. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. This has been going on for a very long time. I’m stuck in a continuum, and I can’t see the end of the road. I can’t even see where I’ve started. It doesn’t matter how far I’ve traveled at this point. I’m skipping a stitch on the scarf; I’m missing the exit on the busy highway.
Something isn’t
right.