man in progress

Moth

What would happen if they told us that
love was nothing else
but an unsurmountable fear
of dying alone?

What if being found
means being even more lost
than you ever were before?

Then which is better: being lost before
or being lost after?
Don’t we all still wander in any case,
and recite poetry to the wind?

Is love just another permutation
of friendship or is it something else entirely?

And why do I always think of heartbreak
before any heart comes close to mine?

Then tell me, doe eyes,
why does everything now seem so much paler?