She was the type to fall in love with the moon and the stars and all of cosmos.
Everything beautifully unreachable.
She was in love with all that ceased life,
with the inanimate,
with those that couldn't reciprocate her love.
What was that she feared?
I'm left unanswerable.
Was it the fear of not being loved back?
Or was it the fear of truly falling?
Being humanly in love?
She has forgotten the art of being loved.
Unfortunate was the one who gave her love.
I wouldn't call myself that.
I will make her love me.
It isn't a dare,
but a promise.
YOU ARE READING
Emotional cripple
Poetry"Is that paint on your lips?" they ask. • • • • • "Yes, the paint of my tainted soul," she say. -A collection of free style poems-
