Love. Such a useless thing to me.
Something that flits on the edges of my life,
But never within it.
Though in everyone else,
It flourishes relentlessly.

I often think that love,
Is like a personal spirit that everybody has,
Like a ghost,
That follows them around,
perhaps from puberty, maybe.

Am this spirit,
When it sees a potential lover,
Wraps itself cosily in that person's heart,
Filling it with warmth,
Feelings made just for the spirit's owner.

Their spirit would mirror yours,
Settle inside you,
Where it would make your heart beat fast,
With every stolen glance,
Every whispered word.

And in retrospect,
When I think back,
I realise that this spirit,
This well of loveliness,
Is absent from my being.

So its perfectly natural,
For my heart to be hard, cold, inhabitable,
For why would I want,
To let these spirits in,
When I don't have my own to send out?