All either of us wants
is a love that will stay,
that we can’t scare away,
no matter how hard we try.

There is a cynic that lives between us,
whispering negative truths,
convincing us we’re happy with alone;
alone is all we’ll ever know.

So we converse;
echoing each other’s bravado,
calling for the submission of others,
laughing at the misfortune we cause.

When all we really (ever)
need to do is open our eyes,
our hearts, our minds;
and, let love in.

I am not in love,
but I love.
I am not infatuated,
but addicted.
This need is awful,
but wonderful.

I traded drugs for stress,
and stress for ***,
and *** for a thing
I can not define,
But it is all a drug
to me.

Maybe you are just you;
lost as I am,
finding me in your words,
finding you in my soul.
Maybe we just need each other now;
not forever

What if I were to write a book?
Of love lost and found and then lost again
A book of what is to be alone
At last, and not at first

What if I were to write a poem?
One that transcends time and space and time again
A poem of what it is to be lost
And found, at the same time

What if I were to write an essay?
Of middles and endings and middles again
An essay of no beginnings
With no end in sight

Where are the words for such things?
How do I claim such places?
Who am I to say, anyway?