It's Sunday, past 10pm. I probably shouldn't have had that espresso at 9... 

I saw a line from one of my favourite love poems in a washroom stall today, "I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees." 

A strange sadness washed over me as I realized that I haven't felt anything resembling the sort of love that Neruda described in far too long. It's terrible. It is really just terrible. The love that evolves through friendships isn't enough. Bonding over mutual suffering as a result of the human condition just isn't enough. I want the impulsive, crazy love that often leads to nothing good. I want to feel slightly obsessed and insane. That's psychotic, right? Yes. Yes, it is. It is. Is it?