This thing of love,

of loving and being loved.

It consumes me in the gentlest of ways, 

softly washing over me until I've been covered up;

a blissful drowning.

I've become willing to risk hitting a shelf 

in hopes of falling into an abyss. 

The blue--the light, the deep,

the airy, the dark--

suffocates me,

blinds me to the other end of the spectrum.

Movement slows,

sound warps,

vision blurs. 

Yet I dive head-first

into its depths, 

and refuse to resurface for air. 

This thing of love, of being loved,

will be the death of me.