Someone once asked, what is love?

The word is translucent.
You speak it as if it’s a secret, or some grand proclamation.
You hear it through whispers, and applause.
You live it and see it as if it were through a glass window, as if you were in a trance.
In life it’s like the remote on the TiVo was broken and everything was in fast-forward, and next thing you know, in a second, in a glimpse, a blink of your eye, it’s already over.
That is love.
Finished before it began.

People are even more transparent.
For the most part people’s intentions are written plainly on their face, but more than often nothing’s written and the person’s a blank page.
We have no idea what we want.
The illness of indecision.
That is love.

The way fire feeds off of oxygen is like how love feeds off of truth.
It’s like a wildfire uncontrollable, and unpredictable, burning with flames of honesty.

Love is a combination of many things.
It’s a chemical formula, an equation.
The one big question, and it’s even bigger answer.
Love is God, and his existence or lack thereof.

The hopeless romantic.
The man who wears his heart on his sleeve.
His heart is his cufflinks.
He plays the victim, the child.

The pessimist.
The cynical lover.
The one who chooses to see the world in black and white.
The one without a heart.
The broken and battered bag lady.
Voted most likely in high school to curb stomp Cupid.
She plays the villain, the scolding parent.

Love is like a manic depressive.
It has highs and lows.
The highs are incredible, the s*** Shakespeare writes about, what’s played in those plot less Hollywood cheese-fest romantic comedies with those too-good-looking actors.
Butterflies and acrobats in your stomach, and fireworks in your chest that’s more than just a case of bad heartburn.
The highs, you’re walking on clouds, and it’s like everyday is summer vacation.

The lows less so, instead of that rollercoaster high, that excited stomach in your throat you’re afraid to breathe, and about to throw up; it’s more like you’re suffocating, you can’t breathe, and you’re about to throw up.

It’s strung out, a high you can’t get off of.
A bad trip.
You search for your feet and they’re not there.
You try to touch back down to the ground, to Earth, but you can’t because gravity hasn’t been invented yet.
And you’re like an emotional paraplegic, a crippled feeling, and you can’t make use of your heart.
Your body is a series of earthquakes and cold sweats, and you’re like Courtney Love waiting for that next fix, that next kiss.
And that scares the s*** out of you when you look in the mirror and realize the monster you’ve become.
And instead of you guys being Romeo and Juliet, you’re Sid and Nancy.
And that’s frightening, really frightening, like some horror movie nightmare where there’s no final girl and everyone dies.
Stabbed and overdosed.

Love is like heroin, it makes you feel so good and yet kills you just the same.
It’s addicting and dangerous.
Love is an illegal narcotic, and a dirty needle.
You know it’s bad for you, but it just feels so good.

So the question remains, what is love?
Well it’s a manic junkie. And it’s wonderful.