Sources of inspiration are all around us
But none inspire prose like love
You meet someone, see them everyday
You know them, like them, enjoy their company
Then in a flash, “like” becomes insufficient
The word becomes as coal is to diamond
It’s not love, you tell yourself
If it were love, it would feel more than this
And yet, you lay at home, sick
Lacking energy, feeling lethargy
The prospect of the next day is exciting
You can’t sleep, like Christmas
Every detail is analysed by the heart
Was that a flirt? Did her eyes linger?
And then you’re apart again
Time slows until next you’ll meet
The analysis of the day is repeated
And earlier meetings too
Note from the author: I have written more of this poem, but I don't feel comfortable sharing it here. Perhaps another time.
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