Respectfully I’d say little, and it used to be enough, but enough often falls short of true and that disturbed me. I wasn’t meaning all I could, I wasn’t being as clear and direct as I wished I could be. It’s pretty to say that love is an aroma of some sort, a volatile fluid needless of becoming materialized, concretized, kissed, but that’s a lie.
Silencing warm thoughts towards someone is foolish, but in some cases, necessary, and I now may see that, and repentance, it surrounds me at times. Do I regret something I shouldn’t have said? Could I have been less in love thus more in control of this blind driven perception, one that may have been too aggressively into you? Did I scare you? I did, didn’t I? I know and I’m sorry, I should have never let me love you this much. My mistake!
Obsession, I’ve heard it, this word inflames me, misunderstood intentions tend to gain an inappropriate character in the heads of those who are but strangers, who spectate something they could never quite feel nor understand, and if they ever come to love someone, one day, they’ll know what I meant by love, and how it changes a person, conferring us an inhumanely full ability to behave selflessly. But their reactions, I do not mind them or their atrophied minds that do not see, they’re ignorant fools, however coming to realise you’re more convinced of such reality than these outsiders themselves, our friends, your friends, that’s frustrating.
Should you know me better by now, better than they ever knew me? I thought so but it seems I was all but wrong, and the years I spent embracing you with my lovely pinky gaze always shiny and smiley, the only one I’ve known myself capable of offering you, well those years they meant so little in the end. They taught you not quite as much as I needed them to, you forsaken them. Was it your mistake? I could have done nothing better, I hope, and if I had could, why didn’t you tell me how to? You, who knew me to be in this situation, but maybe you can’t tell love’s mien when it’s clearly and floodingly soaking through your eyes. You never met it and I was the closest you’ve been to touching it. You didn’t like when I said it to you, that I’ll eternally pity you because you’ll feel no true love from no one else, no feeling passible of being named after such meaningful word, and this I said is a sincere statement. But should I have said it? Probably not, it ended it all, us, we do not talk anymore, and I now pity this void verity. I’d be willing to show it to you, and I curiously did, haven’t you seen my deeds on it too? I get that you could never be able to feel what you cannot, for you don’t crave me, I’m not mad, I’d be being stupid if I was. I’m simply frustrated. And frustration risen from a denied love, that feeling is maddening to an extent you’ll never fully comprehend, and for that I envy you.
You never truly unraveled me, that is your curse, and that’s fine, but me, I’ll never stop wondering how things could have been, different, righter maybe, certainly fairer for me and richer for you. I don’t mind thinking of you, do you? Anyways, that’s my curse, my curse encases you, so in a way I have you, forever, within me, and that’s not all bad is it?