This thing called Love

Does it rise in your stomach,
twisting, burning,
a storm that makes you cry–
yet you beg it never to fade?
Does it climb into your throat,
where words collapse,
where silence grows heavy
because nothing will say enough?
Does it press you down at night,
a pillow against your breath,
killing you softly
with its furious beam of light?

When you imagine yourself old,
frail and gray,
whose hand do you see
waiting at dawn beside your bed?
Yes, it sounds extreme,
and yes, I may be dramatic,
but this feeling has no smaller name.
Does it shake your spine,
wake your bones,
tear you open
and then make you whole again?
Does it take its time,
slow and merciless,
pulling tricks from unseen sleeves,
yet you crave every sting of it?
If your answer is yes
to all of the above,
then, my friend, I am sorry—
but it seems
you are in love