I find myself falling (Again, Again, Again)
I do not mean to fall—
(but the ground keeps tilting beneath me.)
I do not mean to want—
(but the air is thick with something sweet, intoxicating.)
I do not mean to hope—
(but their laughter sounds like a promise.)
I meet a stranger / and suddenly / my heart is writing love letters in invisible ink.
I hear a voice / and suddenly / my ribs tighten like a corset, squeezing out logic.
I brush fingertips / and suddenly / I am rewriting the stars for a future that does not exist.
It happens too fast—
(like a storm that appears from a clear sky, no warning, no mercy.)
It happens too often—
(like déjà vu, like a carousel that never stops spinning.)
It happens without permission—
(like waking up in a dream you did not ask for.)
I do not love them—
(not really, not fully, not yet.)
But my heart does not understand the difference between a spark and a wildfire.
And so I burn.
And burn.
And burn.
Only to find myself—
(again, again, again)
sifting through the ashes.
Emophilia is an addiction to love. For me, I spent most of high-school hopelessly falling for crushes and being physically incapable of doing anything to stop myself from falling.
