They told me I didn't know what love was.

Every stinging syllable of that salient statement still splits me open as if
hit by a throwing knife.
How could I not know something that has both affected my life and
directed my strife?
Yet they were kind of right.

I did not know what love 'was',
I only knew what love 'is'.
Love is,
Persistent.
Both consistent and inconsistent, even
Resistant.

But most importantly, love is existent.

As in the time I practiced kissing the basketball.
Forget the swish, my only wish was for that kiss to be
real.

And I fantasized that She'd be my blue sky.
We'd kiss on the 4th of July,
while the fireworks fly by.
Love was with this girl in my mind.

You see, I'm a Romanticist.
I choose not to live in a reality where logic tells me
affection only leads to an *******.
Or a mathematical algorithm can find our
connection.
No, this is the wrong
direction.  

Still, they think I'm insane.
For romance has been too romanticized,  
into something we cannot theorize.
We must all be square,
and think square.
But when I look into the sky,
I can still see her eyes, desperately waiting,
until the 4th of July.