I find myself falling (Again, Again, Again) I do not mean to fall— (but the ground keeps tilting beneath me.) I do not mean to want— (but the air is thick with something sweet, intoxicating.) I do not mean to hope— (but their laughter sounds like a promise.)
I meet a stranger / and suddenly / my heart is writing love letters in invisible ink. I hear a voice / and suddenly / my ribs tighten like a corset, squeezing out logic. I brush fingertips / and suddenly / I am rewriting the stars for a future that does not exist.
It happens too fast— (like a storm that appears from a clear sky, no warning, no mercy.) It happens too often— (like déjà vu, like a carousel that never stops spinning.) It happens without permission— (like waking up in a dream you did not ask for.)
I do not love them— (not really, not fully, not yet.) But my heart does not understand the difference between a spark and a wildfire.
And so I burn. And burn. And burn.
Only to find myself— (again, again, again) sifting through the ashes.
Emophilia is an addiction to love. For me, I spent most of high-school hopelessly falling for crushes and being physically incapable of doing anything to stop myself from falling.