It's not close to love.
It's not even close.
It doesn't look like it or smell like it.
I know it's a passion, for what, I know not what,
and I know it gives me strength to go on.
I do not know why I do not tire when there is a fire...
I did not light, which cannot not be fanned
which cannot not be touched
not this time.
It's not love.
It's not even close to love,
yet similar, it creates sparks of passion.
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