Love is a verb.

Valentines day is looming and already I can feel it. I've done it. Nearly. Got this far. I said to myself six months ago that I wasn't going to get into a serious relationship before the 14/02/09. So I'm nearly there and I'm not tripping at the finish line. I've achieved something. I haven't played the field and gone through another hurricane season, maybe I haven't stayed away from women completely. And maybe I've given myself more drama then physically necessary. But I'm still standing, in this twisted fairytale called life.
I tell you what the trouble with love is. Love makes you sick. Love has the ability to make you see no one else in the room. Love can drag you out of your horrible little despair and make you fly. Love can blast a cannonball through your chest, leaving a gaping putrid wound for all to see. So the internal affair is very different from the reality of the situation. Love is being very vulnerable and expecting attack. The trouble with love is its never guaranteed. Its never completely safe, its never always returned.
When it comes to love, I always imagine myself pealing off layers of thick packing foam that surround me and peering out at the world at said person. Taking a look around to see who's watching, then I'm sticking my fingers into the middle of my chest and peeling away either side of my ribcage and I hand a bloody muscle to the other party.
Predictably almost - its expected of me. And the gift of this bloody muscle on a plate isn't appreciated and usually isn't enough, it's kicked around and thrown off the top of buildings and in the front of speeding trains. And usually I end with picking my heart up out of bloody puddle and taking her home and hiding her in a shoebox full of cotton wool for intensive care. Usually we have quiet conversations and together we decide again we need to be more careful.
So I've stayed away from the official business, but in many ways of failed. Because currently, my ticker is bleeding in a shoebox under my bed and skips every forth and sixth beat.
A drunken, muddy heart, bruised and cut in half - most of the time. As you might've guessed I have little luck in love or out of it. Hopeless, for lack of a better word and the good things that find me are few and far between and are stolen seasons. Tiny dreams to keep the beat alive.
All I really know is one thing: "It wasn't aeroplanes... it was beauty that killed the beast."
Yes, today is the first of this personal affair. My question today is: Will it ever be enough to give it all to one person and get the same in return? For anyone, anywhere, any day, not just me. I ask this because human beings are selfish creatures, we want and want and want. When will it all be satisfactory?