Love is just paranoia, overused, brutal, quiet,
questionable, freeing, binding, crying,
strumming, thinking, selfish, destructive
amazing/beautiful. Unexpected.

Love is just the same memories streaked with sadness and hope,
rose-tinted glasses on someone that was blind anyway,
a hundred million clichés spraying from bleeding lips.

Love is just an overused phrase that’s lost all meaning.
What happened to real emotions with real feeling?
What happened to something that wasn’t defined
by candy hearts and teddy bears?

(It’ll be okay.
I promise.
But that’s what he said last time.)

Love is KFC in November,
the beach in winter,
the melting pavement,
the lead pipe in the study,
the stars at dusk,
the length of string you can’t untangle.

An enigma,
a mystery,
a hope.

You can’t help it,
can’t stop it,
can’t choose,
can’t win,
can’t lose.

You just fall,
hoping that someone’s there to catch you,
hoping that the safety cord will work,
and that instead of plummeting,
you float.