Not love

When one feels almost this obsessive type of affection towards another, but doesn't understand wether it's love, liking or nothing at all.

I keep chasing someone who keeps running away,

glancing back, as if to say,

"Are you running too? Are you lost in the glow,

of the fleeting sunset, where dreams often go?"

But it is not love, no, it is not love.

A flicker, a spark, not the fire above.

There is desire, I can’t deny,

but love, the kind that makes stars cry,

is absent, hollow, a wistful void,

a romance I somehow cannot avoid.

Do I think of him? Yes, he's on my mind.

Do I want him? Yes, in moments confined.

But does my heart burn, like a lantern aflame?

No, it stays still, indifferent to his name.

What would I do to claim his heart?

Nothing, no scheme, no desperate art.

It is just desire, a fleeting breeze,

a shallow ache, no roots, no trees.

Yet still I keep running, no pause, no pride, 

trying to find where his heart resides.  

And perhaps, I confess, this much is true:

I’m not even sure I know how to.

Love, that word, feels foreign, unsure,

a door I knock on, but cannot endure.

Author's Note

English isn't my first language