I wish I understood
why I love you,
why your face hovers
behind my eyelids
on a perpetual cycle.
I wish I knew
why my heart
considers itself complete
when you are near.
My stomach fills
with flying things,
beating their wings
against my insides,
and that’s only
when I see your face.
My fingers tremble
when I read your words,
and I can’t breathe,
the air sucked right out
of my lungs,
when I hear your voice.
I think I’d melt
if you touched me.
I think I’d probably die
if I actually saw your face.
You are so distinct
and so ethereal
in my mind
that it’s as if
you don’t really exist.
This bronzed statue
of memory
is piloting my love
for a phantom
of my own making.
I used to think
you were strong,
stronger than anyone else
I could imagine,
but now I wonder
what makes you so afraid,
of love,
of risk,
of breaking these rules
that know nothing
of the heart.
Do you run
for the same reasons I do?
Do you remain glued
to your chair
from the prospect
of finding happiness
and misery
in all the same spoonful?
I wish I knew why I loved you,
why I still pine
when I know
we are both
too weak
to cave.


7 thoughts on “Cycles

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