That Feeble Word

Nothing is fair in love
I hate that word.
You've asked me of love and it never helped me at all.
What difference does it make if I love you or not?
What difference does it make that we can never be?
Ask yourself this:
Does love change?
Does it ever die?
Can we really explain it?
So why speak of it?
Let it go.
I have let go
And in doing so, I have accepted.
Accepted myself.
I have let go of my self rightousness,
my denile, my need to control,
my belief that if I feel something, it is for a good reason,
That if I feel pain or even affection for something I shouldn't
Then it must be quelled.
What difference does it make if I love you?
What difference does it make that I have been living a hollow life
So long as I had lost the memory of you
And that at one point I felt so empty that I went away just to find myself
But instead I found you?
I have given up trying to destroy something in me
that some convention says should not be there.
And a decade may pass till I see your face again
And who knows how we will have changed or what we have forgotten?
But what difference will it make?
I always come back don't I?
I always come back don't
I always come back
I always come...

I always


Frankly I tire of these feeble words
And this poetry is such a bore.
My quill has run dry. I'm at mywits end.
I don't wish to write anymore.

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