A “love” type love.

Bukowski once said, “Find what we love and let it kill you.”

In this case, that something is you--

we play,

we laugh,

we make love--

we cry,

we turn our own home upside down,

we leave each others hearts torn from the inside out.

It gets worse each time.

I can’t tell if we’re getting better or worse.

Like a tire,

we can only be patched up so many times

until its life comes rolling to an end.

Soon, the air pressure will be no more,

just as our feelings for each other.

Just as our feelings for each another.

It’s you I love so intensely

and if this kills me,

what a way to go--

oh, what a beautiful way to go.