To be so devastatingly terrified by love, a force unknown and unexplained yet felt by all, and to long for it so deeply.
Alone is not lonely.
But alone is alone.
Promiscuous encounters are not solutions but ducktape on blisters made by years of working too hard to love and be loved.
Where is it now.
What is love.
Must we know what it is before we indulge in it?
Will I have anything left of me if I’m wrong again?
I’m not used to it.
I’m not used to any of it.
You’d think it was a war of hearts, the way we talk about it.
True love is a facade, an illusion.
Must we all just find someone we tolerate enough to spend the rest of our lives with?
Or we’ll just be alone…?
Which is better? What is love? Am I lonely or just alone…
And why does any of it matter.
We love love like a distant memory.
Whatever it was. Whatever is could be.
Unintentional catalyst, the other insane
Who’s honestly to blame?
A kiss from a stranger,
For a heart betrothed to a dead romance,
Yet enticed by his expositionless proposition,
Enamored by his humanity in anonymity.
There is an energy about people. It cannot be explained by the revelations of science, nor the strength of God’s will. In a single moment, there is some scarce certainty when you lock eyes with a stranger. You suddenly feel comforted and enamored by their humanity within anonymity.
It’s not lust, or love- it’s intrigue, and an immediate desire to experience this person for who they are. No preconceived notions; no knowledge of their past secrets. Somehow you know they exist, but there are no words, and no need to ask. Time slowed down for a moment just to permit this, this moment with a passerby in your life. Just as you are a passerby in theirs. But for one second, before you passed through, you felt something.
A drifter, yes. A ghost, no.