I know not the cost.
The price of your sacrifice,
Your murdering your own pride.
The pride you may
Have had for me at one point.
I have never seen it,
Never heard it whisper,
Except when it felt forced
To save some sort of my “feeling”
Never felt it tickle the back
Of my inexperienced neck,
Yet I’ve always yearned for it.
This emotion, like all, I neither
Understand, nor possess,
But I still wish to know its sensation.
I wish to know what I see in others.
To not fail in your specific eyes.
I wish neither to be harsh
Nor accusatory,
I mean that.
You’ve never demanded perfection,
You abhor such an idea,
And, granted, there are things
I have done for which I should be regretful,
But again, I am unable
To understand the very idea.
Ironically, you’ve said I
Talk too much,
Am too full of emotion,
And this such paradox,
I’ve always kept secret.
Sometimes I wish to
Know you better,
To understand more,
To learn your way of thought,
A strain, an algorithm I so respect.
However, it exists somewhere,
Deep inside an earnest feeling,
On subject of your better well-being,
I sometimes wish
You didn't have to know me at all.