Are you in love with her? Or are you in love with the idea of love?
The answer to that question holds the potential to destroy over three quarters of all unions out there.
Are you in love with them? Or are you in love with the idea of love?
I have known you before you existed, before I knew that I knew, I knew you by heart and without a thought, effortlessly, flawlessly as though you were the very force binding my cells together. I patch myself with you, with every laughter that rattles my bones and makes me whole, with every tear that crashes me to pieces, they claim to know you.
When I meet you, I see you for the first time. But I have known you from every face that has ever flashed in front of my eyes, before any of them have had the chance to materialise, I have known you.
Do I love you? Or am I in love with being in love?
I am to wait for the right time, the right face, the right buzz in my heart which has always lived in me, in the little box that occasionally opened up to let the ballerina inside spring to swirl mutely on her tiptoe. I have known you before the box was made, before the ballerina learnt to ballet, I knew you.
You weren’t any emotion my brain had to place, you weren’t an event to be recorded, a person to be entered into the contact list, no you are the very stardust that made me before we knew we lived.
I am not to fall in love with you , you’re not to be introduced to me nor are we to go on dates because we were here together right from the very beginning with the sky on our heads and the grass against our ribs. We were always right here.