When I consider all of the love poems that have ever been written I feel like falling over and dying right there. Remnants of a teacup in my limp hand, smashed pieces of painted ceramic floating in a pool of blood and English breakfast. I’d look like art. Like the greatest love poem ever written, eyes glazed over, paling fast now. Have you ever been eager, not only willing, but eager to die out of love for someone? I know I have, about a thousand different times for a handful of people who eventually proved they couldn’t even live for me. But I still would’ve played sacrificial lamb for them, would’ve approached the scaffold with that scarlet letter sewn to my chest, would’ve accepted the burning stake after being deemed a heretic. Why, you ask? Well, why do you think there are so many love poems? To see and be seen leaves you permanently yearning. It’s impossible to forget that endless knowing, two immortal gods, mirroring forever. I have loved so many with so much. Maybe you don’t understand. But the poets do. We all do.
