it's the whisper of a weary goodbye
caught in a sea of hellos
the faintest touch against your lip
from a manicured hand
or one so callused
it's fingertips rough as they glide on your skin
it's that feeling of familiarity
in a place so foreign
where no one knows your name but you
or who you are
and when you wander around at night
to stumble into your kitchen
making the pots and pans rattle against each other
it's the burning in your chest that goes down your throat
and into your stomach
birthing butterflies that flutter around
it's the cold splashes of water on heated skin
the tear stained pillowcases, the tear stained sweaters
the near-bleeding red scratches of the night before
and the deep blues and purples of a bruise
and when you've had enough
it's the mind-numbing ringing in your ears
and the sudden wash of everything at once
when you take those rose-tinted glasses off
maybe it's love.