Parsimonious

Love is a tortuous thing, its own being.
It fills the air with its aura, surrounding you all.
What is it?
Love is the sound of your still beating hear being ripped from your chest,
Love is the taste of your tears pouring from your eyes and trickling onto your lips,
Love is the smell of burnt out cigarettes and spilt vodka seeping though the grains of the carpet,
Love is the touch of a gentle hand caressing your cheek and tracing over every inch of your body that left long ago,
Love is the sight of crystal hearts shattering, bleeding from the inside out.
And all I can do is hope she doesn't recapture me.
Step gracefully, as to not cut myself on my broken glass,
All I can do is run away, and hope she never finds me again.