Something is worrying me,
Something that would at first seem laughably trivial,
but really isn't.
When we meet, as we shortly will,
Should I take you in my arms, like I desperately want to,
Or maintain a careful distance?
So much has happened.
And you say you regret everything, every day,
But I'm not sure I believe you,
And I don't share your regret.
I am scared that you will read the truth
In my embrace,
And that's the real dilemma.
I don't want to lie to you
And I don't want to lose you again.

I did not choose to love you.

I am never sure of anything.
I have questioned and agonized, second guessed
Every aspect of my life
For thirty seven years.
And now I am sure of something
It is an impossible thing
And it shreds me, from within.

We do not choose who we love.

Everything I ever believed
Was a misunderstanding of the true nature
Of all that we aspire to.
Thirty seven years
And I knew nothing.
I am on autopilot, every atom reaching out
Every thirsty cell screaming for a drink of you.

I think you love me, too.

Oh God, it would be great, wouldn't it?
These were your words, not mine.
Sweet poet, speak to me again,
I ache for your words.
Mine are redundant, recycled, rehashed, and replayed.
I ache for you, I ache for the sound you made, in your throat,
As I ****** your finger, and tickled the tip with my tongue.
Sweet poet, speak to me again,
Offer me that finger, and everything you have,
Offer it all to me,
Please, please, please.

It is not my heart that is breaking.

We are lost and ever abandoned.
You let the waves engulf me,
I'll let you think I drowned.

It is not my heart that is breaking.

All that shattered shall be mended,
You made the decision to let me fall,
I'll let you scatter the pieces.

It is not my heart that is breaking.