Shite! I just cleared my post accidentally. I hate it when that happens...this won't be near as good, but:

I don't know what the actual history of the phrase is, but I have been through the experience, and it was definitely like "falling" to me. It's like jumping off a high cliff into water...you feel excited and exhilerated, and you think that you're probably safe...but there is a little fear and anxiety as well which only adds to the feeling of intoxication!

I write a little, but unfortunately, it is the end of love that sparks the best stuff for me. But, perhaps a glimpse into the death of someone elses "fallen for love" might help to better understand it's beginnings.

OK...here goes :::she said a little nervously:::

Warmth bleeds from me like heat from the cracks in an old and tattered foundation in the dead, cold of winter...

It seeps like lifesblood from a mortal wound, deep and ragged.

My heart and mind grow numb. A snakes venom poisoning me slowly, inching it's way to my souls demise.

His form is still here, but the light is gone. Lifeless automotons, we move about the task of daily routine, occasionally running into one another. Like blind fish, we bump, and then scurry away, nerves raw, wounds to lick.

Trying hard not to remember when that which now poisons me was sweet as mulled opiate, blazing in my blood like fiery quirari, setting my mind, my heart, my soul afire.

Cursed, wretched memory comes unbidden. Is it the doom of us that we forget?

I think not.

I think it is the doom of us that we remember.

Sweet forgetfulness, if only in slumber. To forget the warmth, for now that is is gone, it is a torture.

To dream of other worlds, of lives outside of the one dying in my grasp, slipping through my fingers like sand.

To wake and live a day without the knowledge. To wake and have even the first thought be blissfully ignorant of the reality of yesterday.

And yesterdays yesterday.

And so, I wait.

I wait for the cold to overtake me.

It is the remnant of the warmth that taunts me so.