What is love

What is love— A joke played by a creator with far too much time, A lie dressed in longing, A parasite feeding on hope. It doesn’t arrive with beauty— It slithers in, soft and sweet, Whispers comfort while sharpening knives. We give too much, Wound ourselves for its name, And call the bleeding devotion. But don’t believe the stories. We don’t chase love. We run. Fast, far, desperate. And still it finds us— Grinning like a predator who enjoys the hunt. We hate it. The ache, the silence, The way it rips you open and calls it growth. Then it vanishes— Lets you crawl back to your feet, Lets you laugh again, Even lets you forget. It waits. Waits as you swear, Never again. Not for something so delicate, So dangerous, So perfectly designed to leave you hollow. And just when you start to breathe, There it is. Not behind you. In front. Smiling like it never left. And somehow— Somehow— It wins again.