I am in love with you. Why is it so hard to follow up with an investigation to find the exact chemicals that react to draw me in, then away again? You should seek out the particular fabric to which our hearts have been connected for all this time, find out its properties and why our bodies never rejected it, never even so much as torn a stitch from our aortas' walls.
I've persisted with you to take this clandestine dialogue into reality, dogged you to look back...just this once. Look back and see immediately the time that has passed and how we have wasted it. Insanity has convinced me that within you lies the rotted corpse of our relationship, likened to Catherine Linton's grave exhumed to reveal mere bones underneath her death shawl. It died, but has continued to live and torment us. We return again and again, hoping to satisfy some question and tug the string, hoping to either bring us together or finally pull apart. Do you regret? Do you play mind games with yourself deciphering my poems to you?
Because I want to stop asking, "What if?" and I want to stop thinking, "If only."
It was all beautiful. Even the pain and doubts. It was the first love I'd known outside of my family. Poetry cannot do it justice. I looked up into your eyes and that was real.
Been hiding in this cave for far too long. I crave your light.