Why am I
Always chasing
Pursuing
Wishing
For the unattainable?
My treacherous heart
Flutters
With each new specter
Desired by the me
Outside of myself
I know
It is not love
But how can it matter so much?
Chasing the flash of orange
I know is her bag
Up the avenue
Away from where I
Know
I need to be
Running only
For the prize
Of a single puzzled grin
That I know will flood me
With a unique warmth
Pursuing
His long hands
Longing only to interlace them with my own
To know his warmth cocooned around me
To find the sweet scent of him in his worn jacket
For him, certainly, I do not know love
How, then, can I run myself into the ground chasing?
Chasing what?
Imagined affection?
The idea
Of having someone all to my own?
The ghost of a fire
Not yet lit
But burning me all the same?
No
It is not love
Selfishness?
Loneliness?
The desire to please?
Perhaps
But not love