more than people
i believe every time
to fall in love
with the stories 
i tell myself about them
or they seem to tell
or I wish they could tell

lost behind stories
that I consider theirs
but that I invented myself

i fall in love
again
with people
with people who love things
the love that people have
for the world

i’m lost
lost in love with shiny eyes

what is love
to love the person
or to love their story
or to love the fact that they love









but what is love
because it’s definitely not this

me loving you loving
poetry
and dying of love for her
and not for me.

me loving your story
which is not yours
but mine.

will the stories
i tell myself about everyone
be enough for me? 
and the love of which I am never the object?