FML

Is there actually a reason I keep writing about love?
Songs that speak about futility
And poems that speak of insecurity.
Maybe I am in love
with the idea of love.
A distant dream
never fulfilled,
kept awakened by hope
and a mess of a life
that seeks to find solace
in fiction.
It's what other human beings would term as hopeless
the kind of endearment found in bygone tales.
Yet here I am,
living one of those tales,
seeking closure of some sort
hanging on by the slimmest of threads.
I don't know her anymore.
I don't know myself anymore.
But I know the idea of love exists somewhere,
I'm hooked to its enchanted arms.
It leads nowhere,
It doesn't have any of  the other worldly charms.
It leaves me broken and sorrowful.
That I could never be the man,
who was the right one in her eyes.
I was different.
She was different.
There were no points for similarity.
Not that there was any,
and that was important,
that decided,
if feelings were scarce,
or if feelings clashed somewhere.
Now it's been years
that I am in love
with the idea of love.
No other woman spoke to my soul
about singularities
and unions of people.
All I am good at now is being terrible at life,