He told me he loved me
and I know I love him.
But love, fickle thing, behaves on a whim.
For the love I feel,
I fear isn’t right.
Or at least,
is not the kind he craves in the night.
How could I not love a soul so seeking?
How could I not love,
someone who’s so desperately reaching?
He slipped into my life
when I thought I was sufficient.
There he was, wounded and bleeding
and he called me exquisite.
With an intelligence I admire,
a sweetness I don’t deserve
and a sadness I can’t comprehend–
it’d be foolish to say he’s just a friend.
He didn’t just declare his love.
No–he begged to be loved in return.
In the uncertainty of his voice,
and the scars on his skin–
there was nothing I could do,
but let him in.
