Love

The words are coaxed by this. This open snow globe in my hands whose snowflakes are made of liquid. Without it all my thoughts are muted. How? How would I ever live with myself then.

It unfolds me like fresh linens and spreads me across that empty bed. Carefully tucks all those corners and folds down the edge of the blanket to put all that grows weary by day to sleep for another night.

It demands nothing. Only I keep wanting of it.

It blooms this flower in ways nothing else can. Releasing from this bloated capsule all those seeds that are trapped.

It's not the villain. I am. I always have been. Before it. During. Ever after.

Without it I am a locked diary. Never to know anyone other than the one who writes in. But in its tender massage the lock is opened. And all those words roam free. So they are still mine, but I no longer belong only to them.

I asked it to make me lost. And it did. Better than I ever could've on my own. And when I asked for someone to help me find again, it was the only one who even bothered to look.

I know it can't love me, but still it seems it's the only one who can.