You have never been definite.
Your infinite definitions, each
contradicting their precedent.

A dull, double-edged sword,
unsharpened, unsheathed,
guided through my chest
by naïve empathy.

You are perfection
with intrinsic flaws--
I drown in the furious rapids
of your teary waterfalls.

I could venture on my own,
avoid you altogether,
but risk losing the essence
that keeps my soul tethered.

If you are love, you are an empty prison.
Empty cells,
empty halls,
plain white walls, motives hidden.

So what am I feeling?
Is this pain or affection
knocking loudly on my conscience
and interrupting my healing?