It’s nice to read about it in the poem,
to think, yes, i’ve known this once
and more than once,
this force,
this fever,
this madness…
i can die now.

but no one dies
not from Love
and just to rub your nose in it,
once it’s over
the world keeps spinning
and we keep on living
like nothing happened
like it’s any other day
and soon it is any other day
and we can’t remember
what it was
that made us feel so perfectly insane,
if there is such a thing,
and alive

every love is a death in itself.

I can do without love.
fuck it, we can all do without it.
I just want to be happy.

But being happy
and being so perfectly insane
are not the same.

Nothing comes close.

Nothing beats insanity –
anyone who’s ever been mad
will tell you.

Alien, alienated. That's me.

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