He stands at the crossroads, torn in two,
Between me and time, what is he to do?
I, the spark, the chaos, the flame,
Time, the steady—unwavering, tame.

They were friends first, their bond was light,
Born of comfort, not love’s true might.
She gives him safety, a familiar embrace,
But love isn’t comfort; it’s a deeper space.

I dance in colors, bold and wild,
Time whispers softly, serene and mild.
She moves in circles, unbroken, clear,
I leap through shadows, chasing the near.

Yet I stand faithful, steady, and true,
My love is constant, my promises few.
While she plays games, fleeting and free,
Chasing thrills without loyalty.

She’ll claim she feels, she’ll whisper “it’s real,”
But her actions betray what her words conceal.
For love isn’t fleeting, it’s steady and whole,
Yet she’d share him freely, with no care for his soul.

I see her using his heart as a tool,
Playing him softly, making him a fool.
For her, it’s a game, a fleeting affair,
But for him, there’s more, though she doesn’t care.

She loves the chase, the lust, the dare,
Invites a third without a care.
Her heart’s a wanderer, unanchored, loose,
While mine is tethered with no excuse.

When I hear they’re together, my heart starts to break,
A pain so deep, it’s more than I can take.
Yet she stands there, willing to share,
As if his love is a game, not something rare.

If we’re opposites, stark as night and day,
How can his heart beat in both our sway?
Does he love her stillness, her endless grace,
Or the thrill of my ever-changing pace?

I hold his secrets, his dreams, his fears,
I would stand beside him through trial and tears.
Yet her fickle heart, unbound by shame,
Would most likely cheat and tarnish his name.

Perhaps he is both—the wild and the calm,
Drawn to our worlds like a hymn and a psalm.
Yet, in this triangle, I can’t help but see,
What he loves most may not be her or me.