What is love,

But an incorrigible display of our own assholery

In our protest of being alone?

What is love,

But the denial of a cold room

Constantly beating to the sound of one heart

When you know that there could be two?

A man and a woman

Beating in compatibility.

But I don’t believe in it that way.

I think love is a spontaneous burst of sporadic affection

For anyone or anything that you would simply

Suffer without.

And I think that when those things move on they leave scars on your heart,

Tattered and broken,

Pieces of their memory so you know they’ll never leave

But you know they can’t stay.

I have often less been confronted by love

And more often visited by the scars

As everything I’ve ever loved has taken its leave

Abandoning me with a slash of their own affection

So my heart could never forget them.

Sometimes I just want to tear it out.

Other times I struggle just to hold it in.

What is love,

Other than heartache and heartburn and loss of everything your heart holds?

Love is the very thing

That keeps it beating.