Your love is my joy and my sorrow.
It is your profession of love,
unsubstantiated
that creates this fear in me.
It is not you I doubt,
but your constancy.
I am assured that you
are firm in your belief,
in your opinion,
of your love.
It is the endurance,
the reality of that love
that leaves me cold,
questioning.
A love unsaid is dead.
The love we force upon ourselves
and the love to which we cling
feel the same.
Both have bones of desperation.
No comments:
Post a Comment