This thing of love,
of loving and being loved.
It consumes me in the gentlest of ways,
softly washing over me until I've been covered up;
a blissful drowning.
I've become willing to risk hitting a shelf
in hopes of falling into an abyss.
The blue--the light, the deep,
the airy, the dark--
blinds me to the other end of the spectrum.
Yet I dive head-first
into its depths,
and refuse to resurface for air.
This thing of love, of being loved,
will be the death of me.