It is the drive
In the claustrophobic space that barely exists in your head
It is the flutter
Of your heart, and the numbness in your legs
After the delicate collision of two lips
It is the pain
Of grasping on the idea that perfection is not, and will never be achievable
It is the fear
Knowing that if you fall,
Not a single person cares enough to catch you
It is the loss
And the emptiness you feel
Caused by no longer having a hand to envelope into yours
It is life
Who is the creator of our emotions
By laying out our fate for us in paths made of
Silk ribbon and razor sharp needles