Love is a loosing game


look for me when you look me in the eyes.

am i still me ?

i think i’m loosing myself.

i think i’m loosing myself.

i’m a fragment of the girl i used to be.

that girl you once knew.

i don’t recognize this version of myself.

and i hope you never meet her.

i loose myself between the lines.

i find myself amongst the words.

why do i repeat these cycle?

is this what love does to you ?

or is it merely the illusion of love that does this to us ?

look for me when you look me in the eyes.

bring me back to myself.

i’m loosing myself.

and i’m loosing you too.

the writer or the muse.

you feel like poetry/

sharp, like edges on a fresh page.

that cut if you don’t handle with care.

you feel like poetry/

warm, like a flame can,

if you get just close enough to it.

what’s the difference between close enough and too close?

and at what point are you too far gone?

i swear, i can’t tell the difference these days.

or perhaps, i just never learned to tell.

you feel like poetry/

real, like poems you read so many times, they archive as true stories do.

what was real

and what was not ?

i guess, that just depends on who you ask…

the writer or the muse.