What is love, really?
Is it not the emotional entanglement of lust, jealousy, hope and despair?
What is love, really?
Is it not the homicidal impulse to rip out the hearts of those who stand in your way?
What is love, really?
Is it not the tangible proof to the testament that those who desire you are never the ones you desire ?
What is love, really?
Is it not the never ending quest to find out what love is?
What is love, really?
Is it not the 10 seconds in which your seamen ejaculates from your manhood?
What is love, really?
Is it not the willingness to put up with all that is humanly and characteristically imperfect?
What is love, really?
Is it not the insomnia I am suffering from at this very moment?
What is love, really?
Is it not the lingering eye contacts you tempt me with so very innocently?
What is love, really?
Is it not the silly question you asked about whether or not you are the one
who I would have liked to kiss?
What is love really?
Is it not my angst for the fact that you are so close, yet so far away?
What is love, really?
Is it not my longing to be held in your arms while feeling the rhythm of your heartbeats and the warmth of your body?
What is love, really?
Is it not you?
