I don't love you.
I tried to. I wanted to.
You were my book - I treasured and studied you.
You rapt me, yet to myself I wasn't true.

If I loved you -
why my fickle heart?
If I loved you -
where was my soul?

I deserve your fire.
I deserve your being ire.
I deserve your indignation;
but, my dear, not your accusations.

You don't want to believe when I say
I don't play with hearts. It wasn't a game.
I guess it's okay.
I know my reasons not to stay.

For I too was caught in the ocean.
Yours still. Mine sporadic motions.
The nights I suffered. I felt meek.
In the cold, my tears turned to ice on my cheeks.

If "thought-love" was an emotion
you would have received a mass of this devotion.
Now, my lover part has been exchanged for a demon.
My dear, are you aware, I am human?