If This Is Everything Short of Love

If this is everything short of love,
Then why does it consume me this much?
Why does it run in my mind like shadows
    showing themselves, tempting to get caught?
Why does it lay meaninglessly like sand.
    yet I keep them in my grasp, tighter,
        while they fall between the gaps of my fingers?
Why does it leave a yearning taste in my mouth,
    the ghostly taste of your breath,
        waking me up from my deepest sleep?

If this is everything short of love,
Then why can’t I stop myself?
Why can’t I tighten the reins that hold me back
    so I could choose to do what is right?
Why can’t I forget the ones worth remembering,
    so I could choose to do what I hope I won’t regret?

If this is everything short of love,
Then why do I keep asking questions?
Why do I keep asking when I know what it is,
    that this is nowhere near what love is,
        that this is nothing what love is?

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