Love Is

Love here isn't a pink headache syrup or a pill for an existential gloomy morning. More like the icy air after falling from a balcony: you're alive, but you're not sure you want to breathe. She is both warmth and frostbite in a single touch. First, it promises salvation, and then it turns into a mirror where you only see your own stupidity wrapped in a beautiful metaphor. And here you stand, snow-covered, with a stranger's name on your lips, trying to understand if you loved or if you just got used to calling it love.