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Love

It's weird, though. You're so lost, but there is so much surrounding you. It's the empty that is lost that is filled by this emptiness; the form is of question, doubt the substance. Emptiness surrounds you but while you're here, it's at least something to keep you from void.
There are plenty of questions, and if you had the answers, it would be the way out and you know this; but the empty, the suffocation and the image you still have of her are all still her, kept in your mind, and you can still have that here.


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Read: Can we be learned, translated, and taught to computers to be copied? 


You talk and there are a thousand things you want to, could, say at each moment. You can at last say it--
The words that come close to telling her how you feel;
The questions that will allow you to know her just a little bit more;
The pointless, boring small talk that will be forgotten in five minutes or less, that time spent to have at least five minutes, or more, worth of time with her.
--It's never the right thing to say. It's always the very much worst possible choice that you go with.

You go home, and you think again. You think about the other things you could've said. 


If I could scream onto this page for reader to feel, hear, this piece would need no more; but I can only write, and so, I write and so, before I know it there are thousands of words about love and feelings on a page.
I'm in love with writing- this comes later- but when I find myself in love with a woman in the now, it feels like cheating on someone who loves me back- and 'now' becomes one confusing, dirty empty mess where nothing beautiful exists.
But if I write about love of a woman or a man here, on paper with my pen, what is that? 


It's a lot less pleasing than the usual, and that goes for the both of us, reader.

On her eyes- my favourite on her- so very different every day but every part of what each day is being so... her. The eyes drawn and and colour dropped within the lines, filling them but never quite finishing their fall, being so impossibly deep with the only end being her absence or sleep. You'd jump into them and wouldn't be ready to leave the cliché even after the swimming wrinkles your skin. 
But that isn't quite right. It can't be right, exactly what I feel. 

If someone was to mentioned, say, her eyes, giving her their own cliche version that suited her perfectly, it wouldn't be enough; a perfect explanation of a person wouldn't be enough of her because though there is no perfect, though perfect sets the bar higher and sets the previous perfect at good, she is still above the bar. She's what perfect wants to be.
As her eyes are the soul, her mouth is heart- using a word, sentence or poorly-written piece of writing is an insult to either and both. You'd still try and find the words, hunting them for the rest of your life, finding some that see a fraction of her, or even begin to describe what she is, but never finding the above perfect, impossible, explanation of her that is. Drawing words and feelings out of what surrounds you as her soul wrinkles your skin, as her heart speaks in ways you thought impossible- that you wish you could- you never quite can.



Love is impossible to explain but the only way we can (almost) explain love is to talk about this impossibility. 




Writing about love is my eight-ball. The rush of writing, taking me faster- as it does- hurting as I go through the empty, the void of love to find the words that surround me going onto the paper to create. While I write, it feels god, the flow of it goes through my hand into my heart- right to her- where the answers(: She doesn't love you back, move on, there are millions of other people) offer a way out which I do not take. Instead, I'll stay here for a little while longer. 

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