It is like looking for a stranger in a room full of familiar faces.
I don't know how it looks like, or how it sounds, I only know
it exists because they always talk about it.
It brushes past my skin
and already tangled hair,
not bothering to come
back and take care of
the mess it makes.
It wraps its dainty fingers
around my heart and
squeezes it of all its
longings, leaving it
sore and lonely.
Sometimes I imagine myself already at the autopsy table with my cold skin sticking to the bed made of steel. I think if the doctors were to slowly cut me open, they would find nothing but the bare spaces I had reserved for love, that remained untenanted till the end, weighing my organs down like anchors in a sea. I don't know how else I can explain this emptiness I feel.
I cannot take it anymore. An incision here and another there. I tell them, when it is over take my heart and some soil, fill in those empty spaces, if not with love, then with some fulfilled promises and some wisterias.
[title taken from the poem "I Think Love is Something That Happens to Other People" by Michael Gray]