By Julia Koslowsky

What is love?
A figment?
A feeling?
A word without meaning?
Can it ever fly higher than
This star-studded ceiling?
How can you know if love is returned?
How can you love without being burned?
Why is the word thrown around without weight,
Until it becomes — with sarcasm — hate?
Does true love exist in this world we call home?
Can hearts entwine if one feels alone?
Without love, we are without hope.
So what is love?
It has to be real; for otherwise,
We wouldn’t still be here.
It’s a figment.
A feeling.
A word with some meaning
Stuck in the stars, in the sky, in the ceiling,
Waiting for those who are desperately seeking
A home.
A face.
A knock at the door.
For those who are waiting for so much more.
Is it real?
Will it last?
Is love made of glass
Ready to shatter at the slightest sound,
Leaving the pieces alone on the ground?
Love is more.
Love is real.
It’s all that I see and it’s all that I feel.
But still is the question:
What is love?
A bridge?
A gap?
A road full of cracks?
It’s everything.
Everything here and under the sun.
Everything elsewhere and everything gone.
Love is love.
It’s figment.
It’s feeling.
It’s more than the stars that consume all our dreaming.



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