melted

i write about love a lot

i don't understand myself, honestly, for someone who writes about love a lot i have no idea how to describe it,

i get away with jingling bells and obvious glances, obvious answers, and you all know it, they're in love (because of course they are) and it's wonderful and magical except for when it's not,

i still however am oblivious to the signs i spend hours plotting, oblivious to the signs i display to those that have my heart, oblivious to the fact that i give my love out so freely,

i am baffled by the unwritten terms and conditions that encompass the world of love, those that know it are unwilling to share their secrets, but vague answers are barely enough to satisfy my hunger for understanding,

i will never truly understand whether my heart rises or drops when i see him, whether i am tongue-tied or tongue-twisted, whether i feel cold or hot, add on an infinite amount of situations and i am lost, wandering in a labyrinth with a glass elevator to the end,

i give love, i receive love, i am in love,

i suppose, for i will never know for sure, for i write about love a lot, however,

i don't know what love is.