if i write poems about his lips, and how the only thing that could satisfy me would be to sink my teeth into them, that's love, right? if all i think about are his hands, and how they look like they could do me ****** harm, but instead i'm wishing they would treat me with extreme gentility, that's love, right? if on the way to school, i can't see the road ahead of me because of my tears and how they blur my vision because i know that he will never need me as much as i need him, that's love, right?if i'm wrenched into consciousness at one a.m., drenched in sweat, breathless at the subconscious thought of his hand in my hair, that's love, right? if i can't see anybody but him, eve as i'm filling the void with meaningless strangers, that's love, right? if i've lost myself into the ever loving abyss and i haven't cleaned my room in months, that's love, right? if my hair is matted and my soul id dead, if i'm not me and he's still him, that's love, right?