I’m not very good at speaking of love,
I fear I don’t quite understand it.
You see — I hadn’t much experience in it.

But, I curse the desire that builds every day in hopes
of  finding it, feeling it.
I long for the warmth it brings, the safety and comfort
I hear so many speak about, it, what I read about in fairytales.

My heart aches for some resemblance of it.
I wish to find someone to speak me —
Understanding the language of me,
who peers inside me, holds every pieces of me.

Cradles me, whispers to me —
I am loved, every fractured piece of me.

Oh, how I wish to know what that experience is like.
Perhaps, love is just not for me.