You make me feel like a 

small dandelion in a field of 

sunflowers.

A weed hiding with beauty

surrounding it's shrivled up body.

Your smile is like a 

boquet of violets and blue bells and a splash

of roses.

The thorns prick my fingers

whenever I kiss you.

I don't mind the pain, though.

It reminds me that we are not immortal as

my thick blood somehow runs thin and drips

down my arm onto yours.

You say we're joined through blood and body.

Flesh and bone.

I say there's a string attatching our hearts

that can easily be cut. But has not

yet.

I know love is not forever and you even told me once

that to love is to be blind

and to be blind is to be free.

But how can we be free if we cannot see

the tragedies that we live in?

We're living lavishly with our heart strings intertwined

but what of those who's strings have been cut so many times

they cannot bring themselves to 

love?

I used to be like those who could not seem to find the right way

to tie my knots, for the other person would seem to slip away.

Only when I met you, I learned instead to tie a figure eight

so that we could climb together and reach the top;

and if I had, like in the past, tied a slipknot

we would fall and break our frail love

necks snapping on the jagged rocks below.

I don't write to upset

but to tell the truth. Love is not forever

and I think it might just be a foolish idea.

And yet I still feel my heart stop when I look into your beautiful eyes

of caramel delight.

Oh, you make me swoon!

But is that all fake?

What if this is a facade we put up

to hide all of the horrible things outside of this little bubble

we maintain?

Fuck this.

I'm in love, I think. With

you.

Do you really love me too?

Why do I just always fall into these cycles of typhoons of questions

all drowning out my reason of reality.

What is this? A factuality of existence?

A rant.

This is what this is.

The only real explanation.

To love.

Love's definition:

A rant that never ends between your heart and head.