It's not her, exactly—
     though she's the spark,
     the flame,

     the reason words spill out
     like I can't hold them back.

It's not just her smile,
     or her eyes,

     or even the gentle chaos of her presence.

It's the way she makes me feel,
     the way she wakes me up,
     pushes me past numbness
     and into life—

     every nerve alert,
     every moment vivid,
     every heartbeat…

     a reason to write.

I'm addicted to the rush,
                the madness,
                the sweet ache of longing itself.

It's not *just* that I'm in love with her— (obviously, I am)
     it's that I've fallen deeply,
                      irrevocably,
                            madly,

     c r a z y

     in love with love.