I hold my hand pretending it is yours

She asked me if I wanted to fall in love.

I told her I already was.

She asked me what it felt like

And I wrote her this poem.

What is it about love that makes people want to kill for it?
What is it about heartbreak that makes it taste like blood?

I could tell you that love is a fickle thing,
But I waited my entire life for it
And the one time it came, it promised to stay.

You told me I had small hands, And I
Couldn’t help but look into your eyes,
For if one of these days, I forgot what love looked like
I hope I remember how your fingers could have fit in the spaces between mine.

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