What is it?

I’m often told I don’t know what love is. As though I would pass off a tickle in my tummy as such a trecherous feeling. As if my years restrict my emotions. They do not. Isn’t it true that no one can be trusted better with a difficult situation than someone that isn’t in it? Examining it scientifically, detatchedly and calmy. Shouldnm’t that be how I am now? Not reduced to this pitiful display you see before you; of tears and turmoil. No, it would not do for my beloved to see me like this. And it most certainly would not due for those that care for me to see such a betrayed, tortured look to my being. My tall stature hunched and usually grinning face smushed into a pillow as a replacement for a friends shoulder- for why should I bother anyone with such a routine, nightly occurence? Nothing to worry them about. No, it most certainly would not do.

Not acceptable, for me to be in love with the flaws of a face, or the greatness of a character. Leave me be with his memory, and let my friends not hear the sobbing from where they lie like babes in their beds. It’s the couch for me and I know he’s just there- or is he here? Could my mind be the house of my greatest love and of my worst weakness? Caring... Caring, caring. Is it to be an advantage this time? A thousand cliched thoughts a minute fly around my poor dazed head. Sleep has left me too. I can feel it. It won’t return for another week perhaps. Save for the odd hour, where it teases me with dreams of my weakness.

Ah.

Yes.

Caring. A danger to all that makes me logical. A danger to everyone around me. Anyone I could protect who could be injured in the process of this stupidity. Of the boring cliche that is my heart and my head as the salty snakes of tears make their way down my chin to the pillow of the couch and to their bretheren, sown moments before. I imagine they ask each other why they each think they’re there. Oh, the conversations a tear must have! In particular, the tear that understands its purpose. The tear that glistens a bit more as it rolls down my cheek and the tear that evaporates from the pillow twice as fast because it knows that it is not to be seen.

Oh!
My weakness!
Love is not love that would pronounce itself false. Isn’t that what Shakespeare said? And that heaven truly knows that he is as false as hell. Oh! The stabs of pain come now and I mumble to myself about an end that never seems to come. Held by my own strong arms to the warm damp of the pillow, rocking myself back and forth in a foolish attempt to bring some rythm back to this stupid life of mine... A vain attempt, to say the least. Stabs of pain ripple down my spine to my toes, back up to my torso as I mumble another stupid nothing such as, ‚Et tu, brute?‘ And perhaps I am silent for a time after. Though there is a lot more I could say as I try to reason with myself. To calm the tidal horemones that must not be depression or a bipolar disorder for there is always a cause. This cause of mine is this love of mine who walks on  two legs and stares intensely at me- no, I think. He can not know what he’s caused me the night before. Make up will cover up a break up. Especially a break up that must never have happened, from the kisses and the jokes we share over a sandwhich that merry afternoon.

Yes,
My weakness is human.
A human.

A human who, I regret to inform you, says it all over again before the day is over and I turn quickly away from him. I walk away. I don’t stop. Hitting the pillow with my head, I feel nothing but the heat rising up my throat and tears once again widing down my cheeks in an attempt to calm me down.

That night is the night when I finally start to think again.
About how maybe they’re all right.
And....
I really don’t know what love is, because I go and do it all again the very next day.