I mean, love is energy, right? So it doesn’t die. It just changes forms. Evolves, I imagine, then burrows into memory. Real love, anyway. I think it’s easy to confuse love with other things. Lust, for one. Need, for another.
She’s so perfect at being imperfect and human,
it makes me want to reach to the sky and pluck out a star,
just for her to hold in her heart.
This star would not outshine her,
for she would outshine it with her beauty.
She would outshine the star with her kindness.
She’s someone you always long to be with.
Someone who actually cares about life and what it’s about.
Who cares about love.
She could have done without those feelings. She would have happily gone her entire life never experiencing the pangs of longing and the futility of regret. He made her human—or as human as she was capable of being. And being human was possibly her least favorite aspect of life.