johngalt

The fool speaks --
"What is this thing called love?"
The spirit is weak yet the heart still beats,
hot blood coursing through pallid veins,
veins of a hollow shell,
that only lives in your light.

What is this thing that torments me?
When I look on my pillow with fright
another night with empty arms
and the vision of you,
laughing in their grasp
whole, plentiful and plush with life.

Every day I live with that sight
And as I try, try as I might
to shake those dreams of a beautiful concert,
I am alone when I turn out the light.
Yet again, I close my eyes on nothing.

What is this thing called love?
A tightness in my breast,
a constant stream in my head,
a shortness of breath,
the eternal dread,
of seeing, but never feeling.

It is you.