Pulse, Faintly.

At a glance, love seems so fair, A chivalrous king and passionate stare. Awaiting reality is like drowning – There’s no hunger. And no happiness. Existence is merely the crowning Of the opalescent pain, The multifaceted gem of wanting Craving, needing… Such adoration is unhealthy, they say. It is not quaint or contained In any small way. Rather, it flays one alive, and Brings them to their knees. Sickness in the brain, others whisper. It’s all, of course, insane – such is the gossip Of the happy loved souls. Only the pleas From the lost are misheard as illness. It can’t be helped. It can’t be saved. Beseeching hearts whisper to the air, Heed me! Heal me! Romantic that may be. Impractical. Imperfect. A nasty tinge of green is seen Around the soul, around the head. Surrounding, suffocating… And yet, Love never seemed so fair.