What is Love?

I used to believe that love is opening up
to the vulnerability of pain, as I was told.

I used to think that it is a risk
we always gamble not knowing what lies ahead,
if we really end up with someone worth it,
or stay at night contemplating where it went wrong.

Does the heart really able to unleash monstrosity
within us while caged in our brittle bones?

But what is a definition if not something that gives meaning?

We lie in the bed at night, assured that when
we decided to close our eyes, we figured it all out.
Writing silly definitions in someone’s slam book,
owning every single word like it was writing through
a line of cracked rib we pulled and our blood as ink.
That kind of commitment. That kind of certainty.

Yet, I think love is something so personal, it defeats absolutes.

There is no certain definition that overlaps its meaning.
Not of a messiah and his perspective,
and not even an epiphany.

“Love is not possession. Love is not abusive.
Love is patient. Love is kind.
It is not love if it’s hurting someone.
It is not love when someone gives so much.”

But definitions ought to make us feel ashamed
when we talk like we know what we're talking about
when we talk about love.