I’ve romanticized the idea
of being a hopeless romantic
as if I could hover there forever,
just above the ache,
never quite touching ground.
There’s a part of me
that drinks from misery
like it’s something sweet.
But what is hopeless romance, really?
What makes it hopeless?
writing poems to your lover
as they sleep beside you,
tracing their fingertips
to memorize the map of them.
syncing your breath to theirs,
tuning your heartbeat
to the rhythm of them
And when it ends
you fall
endlessly
into a vortex of memory
their fingerprints
still burn on your lips,
you’re still in sync.
You’re in the dark
and you’re falling
and somehow,
it feels like home.
dopaminepatterns 