My fingertips are holding on to the cracks in our foundation, and I know that I should let go, but I can't.

I'm sorry I couldn't do it. I'd like to say I really tried, but I didn't. The whole time I sort of knew it wouldn't be that easy. I think I should still get brownie points for attempting it though, even if it was just a pathetic little stab in that direction. I'm not even sure why I tried, I mean, it was just a weird little thing my hand did, when it covered up your picture. I thought it was some sort of sign that I couldn't stand to see your photo. Well, I'm usually wrong with all this stuff anyways. Like I was wrong about you and me. Well, I may still have been right actually. Though, that's a problem I can only solve by talking to you or doing some serious hacking, and, well, I prefer the hacking. Anyways, I'm sorry I couldn't stop. Even though I don't know if you want me to or not, it would probably just be best if we could forget it all. Maybe we could be friends, who knows. All I know is that I don't want to let go of you just yet. You've sort of become a part of me, and I was never much of a masochist. Well, one could argue that I am, for doing this to myself. But I think I'd rather bear the long suffering than rip you out of my heart.

Because I'm not brave, not really, not like you said I was, not like I hope you think.

What is it?

It's a sickness, a drug, a medicine, a thought, a bond, a theory, a form of insanity, a personality trait, a romance, an anti-septic, a handicap, a nuisance, a tool, a facade, a pain, a disorder, a feeling, an expression, a myth, a religion, a way of life, a goal, a challenge, a fever, an advantage, a life, a death and everything.

It's, *GASP*, love.