Love is dangerous. Especially the second chances kind of love. Where it's no longer a second chance it's the 6th or the 9th or 23rd. The kind of love that makes you stay up until 4 am talking about who knows what and going god knows where. The kind of love that forgives. Too often. The kind that leaves you feeling empty chested at night as you lay in bed wishing they were beside you. The kind of love that doesn't ask questions. Or maybe asks too many. The kind of love that makes you neglect your friends. The kind that buys you flowers. The kind where you ask for forever. But they can only give you right now. The kind of love that says I guess I'll take what I can get of you. The kind of love that no one else has. You ask if my love is real. "Prove it" you say. You ask if I love you. And the problem is I do. I do more than life itself. And you have no idea how scary that is. It's okay. I don't expect you to read my mind. I can't decipher its language either. Believe me. I've tried. I've grown weary of attempting the impossible. Yet I still ask you to love me like I love you.
(If you're reading this, I'm sorry.)
YOU ARE READING
The Sum of Parts
Poetry"The whole is greater than the sum of its parts." -Aristotle
