What Is Love
Love.
There are so many conotations behind it,
Yet what does it mean?
I think too much,
But can’t come to terms with any thoughts.
This brain fog is yet to go,
But how will I know
When it is gone?
Love.
What I feel is not romantic, no.
It is not some crush,
It is not feeble,
I am not in love.
I swallow the dry taste of confusion
Drifting through me.
I cannot think,
But the thoughts are always there.
What is love?
Why must it be divided into parts
Like romantic and platonic?
I don’t know where to start.
This feeling is not romantic,
Yet it is not platonic, either.
What I feel goes deeper, but not too deep.
I continue to wonder;
What might be if these words ever released from my lips.
I love in a way that cannot be described.
Comfort. Warmth. Safety.
Those are the words
Quawing like birds
In my mind.
Love.
I am constantly thinking.
Not with my head,
But with my heart.
But I wonder:
Is my heart burdened by my brain?
All of this pain
Yet to go away.
What is love?
Is it some socially constructed label?
One of few definitions, none worthy of explaining
What is going on up there?
Who’s to say?
My mind won’t sway,
It’s just another day
Of tormented silence.
What does it mean to be held?
Why would I ever want that in a non-carnal way?
Because I am not to be narrowed down to some physical prowess.
My anxiety keeps me from feeling,
But makes me feel constantly.
Love.
Why must you be so complicated?
Drifting away,
I do not pray
To a god,
But to anyone listening to free me from sorrow.
This love is not sorrow, no.
But the state of unknowing is treacherous.
Why must I conform to societies beliefs of what I am supposed to feel?
Love.
I don’t know what this love is,
I just know what it isn’t.
What is this love?
Copyright © Reghan Eyre | Year Posted 2022
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