I run circles around the idea
of romantic love, but how can
I explain I am enamored with its
picture, while far removed from
what it seems to stem from?
I am an unnamed organ inside
a chest that rings hollow, lost
to some, strange to most, a taste
of something they can't let go of,
but it's a lie on burned tongues.
I'm a captive of confused eyes and
judging minds, I can't miss what I've
never had, I can't want what I don't
understand, I'm not wasting away -
self-born passion to light up the dark.