Am I drunk in love?
Intoxicated on the essence of you and the way you make my head spin,
Or am I merely a drunken fool?
Too far gone to know when to stop, invincible in my stupor.
Whose to say there’s even a difference,
Maybe they simply bleed into each other, starting off with the best parts until the best parts aren’t enough.
Perhaps that is why drunks cling to the bottle as though it were a lifeline,
Because life is simply too plain and numb when not felt with intense feeling and wide
Perhaps that is why the bottom of a bottle always holds more appeal then the conversation that follows a broken heart.
Have I drunk enough? Have I not even touched the surface?
How can I tell when enough is enough and I’ve have too much,
Because from where I’m sitting, the liquor burns just the same going down as it does out.
Love is such a fickle thing, beautiful and tragic and always craving more than a soul should allow,
Always wanting what it shouldn’t desire, because what’s better than a taboo romance trapped in the longing of a heart that thrives on the attention of the one that will never be theirs.
What is it about the forbidden fruit that has us climbing trees and jumping off its branches?
What could possibly be in those seeds that have us tipsy on the thought alone?
Perhaps it is one of the mysterious working of the heart and her twisted games.
Yet, this addictive taste is what keeps me coming to play the game night after night,
Idealistically hoping the rules to the game will change overnight,
And I would be able to win the game of hearts among cheats and spades.