I have loved you
from afar
cloaked in shadow...

I have gazed
upon your beauty
from behind...

I have followed
all your life
in a scrapbook...

With color photos
no one else
as ever seen...

I have wept into
your hankie
when you dropped it...

I have sat upon
a chair
you left still warm...

I have kissed
you goodnight
through your window...

But when I left I wiped it clean.

You sing songs
of unrequited love
but you know not
on that subject.

You sing songs
of longing
but you know little
on that subject.

Oh God,
I love you,
oh how I've loved you,
oh you disrespect and belittle me.

Surprise looked me in the eye, an instant rush,
One moment that was purely innocent.
Surprise swooned me into arms, bore open,
Multiple moments that were so naive.
Surprise betrayed me in the beginning,
In that moment, after years of artful diversions,
Surprise was forgiven.
---
This first love, puppy love, three years it took.
Three years it took me to realize what one song,
Spit in seconds less than just three minutes.
(non-poetic rant, just bear with me, too many concerned people on other sites)
I know now, despite every other outcome or possibility that my thoughts stirred up, that it never really mattered whether I truly forgave you or not, you knew that you had leverage over me because of how I felt for you. You knew that no matter what I did, however hard I tried to push you away, that if I got a call that you had been hurt or were going to end up being hurt that I would be there no matter what. That power was something that you used against me to keep me around. People may not have "magic" but they sure do have power. I made a mistake by staying involved with someone who would toy with my emotions, and it took me a **** long time to realize that I hadn't been thinking properly. It literally took removing myself entirely and then some time after that to really grasp everything that had happened between us. Although, that being finally said, I do not regret the fact that that had happened, and it wasn't entirely miserable. I learned a lot from you, about myself, the universe, and anything in between. I do not regret having done the unthinkable in forgiving you because I wouldn't have had that experience. I wish the best for you, and I will be a friend, but you have to understand why I cannot ever lose footing on my stance again, not with you at least. So for today, just let sleeping dogs lie and let guard dogs be. For tomorrow, one may not know for certain, but what I do know is that I don't want to worry about tomorrow until tomorrow.

Sincerely, a love that was never meant to be.

There is no rhyme, no feeling, no despair
Compared to loving and not receiving
In the world of love, they say it's unfair
No matter what side, you end up losing.
For in the days of sunlight, you fear rain
So in the darkest hour you cry alone
What was once pride has now turned into shame
What was once yours is no longer your own.
But heart, do not set forever, be wise
For slowly and surely you will survive
And wake up to find love that would suffice
Though unrequitted before... You will strive.
For though you have been hurt, you will heal too,
And in healing you'll find true love for you.

What if you were poison. This room was a gurney. My parents garage was a time machine. My drawers were a piece of unwritten elementary homework. My bed was a stalemated chess game. Every pair of shoes I've ever worn is one of the beaches I never went swimming at. My laundry were soldier's garbs. I'm living in four minute increments. Two yellow chairs are an empty wine cellar. Two doorknobs an ancient battle field. I have green pants and they might be the entire state of Florida. My book shelf is a poem by Keats, and the books on it are The Village Green. This printer is actually an English love affair. The paper inside of it a pasture, a meadow, and even parts of a rill but not the water in it. I see words scribbled in notebooks and they don't produce melodies. This is a heavy place to use candles. These are the trousers I wear when no one is watching me. Three DVD's tell a story, but no one listens to stories anymore. A carton of cigarettes is a hospital full of people working, a metaphor that doesn't need to be made but should instead be written down. Chocolate bars are all around us, better to keep them quiet. My childhood is drifting off to sleep in a pair of gray sweatpants and a white crew neck t-shirt. Hush Hush. A god hidden inside a scrap of prose that always wanted to hide away but never could. Here are the limbs I'm beating myself to death with. Here are the headaches that I rubbed from your neck; the apple juice and animal crackers that brought both of us back to life, the Wichita suitcase filled with field grains and soy that only made your Grandfather rich. I'm bruise-bent on discussing the never ending. I've filled my head with the status of ritual, I've crossed my legs and enriched my mind with dozens of proverbs, adverbs, and ad lib; nothing that ever once was could be, and nothing that has been could ever be as easy again. Each hill top is a summit worth standing upon. Every picture is a place worth returning to. If every sentence structure and bomb of the mouth was the furnace heating an article at the end of a sentence, or the sentiment with which to generate a sonnet, then mornings could be the clusters to every ache and evolving vowel. Each and every worry would be a giant and the juggernaut which knocked him down. Maybe your ****** is a tooth brush. Maybe mine is just ******. Maybe every inch of my body is made up of locks and caveats. I could retreat to the wilderness, a place where the trees are ornaments to the sky, and the stars are just the songs we don't hear. Heat is a conundrum, the water and the air too. We're longing our way to infinity, chancing ourselves by adhering to dross and sinching our hearts of blood. What if Chicago was the biggest love story of all and I was just not observant enough to notice. I've gone down in three hundred airplanes. What if worry was the tea I declined, heartache the questions I didn't ask and the wishes I never answered. What if your mother was also poison, your sister the true love I unrequitted, your brothers the Roman soldiers which saved us all. I long to be close to the ocean, I retch and thrash, drawing shivers up and down my spine. Here are the shadows aplenty. The heaviest of the hours that save on us like we were up from zero, still and counting on ourselves. These are the lines that I'm petting heavily, washing up and down, left to right, horrific nightmares that come and go as they please. All is left to be said again. Castes are bids meant to be said again. I've been taught to live well even as a quiet mess, to be white while the day's break is still to come. What if leather was the only way I knew how to fly. Bubblebaths the only luxuries I never settled. Your kitchen the last place I felt fully loved. Here is where I reappear. Countries that I've traveled to in languages I taught myself to speak. Wit the wild bunch of berries I crushed into my own craft cocktails. I'm quaffing and I'm trapping. I'm riddled with night and I still can't stand up straight. This is the last place I remember being. Turning over in my gravest stare, and gazing long into the never ending stereotype of my merchant birth and stately hide. This may be the song that sets my tone. This might be the song that describes me best. Never published or punctuated. Always thriving in bated breaths. Always living just an inch from the soon. Here where the moon men trip and fall. Here where the pronouns leave every thing left unsaid.

Hail unrequitted love,
ancient poetic rite of passage.

The bullet-burn of countless ant bites
knawing, devouring at young and tender flesh
empties soup-bowl eyes of suppose'd might,
a ringing scream sprawls out of each biological mesh.

You have never felt anything this full-of-feeling.


Never have you been so overcome
with nausea that you have no out
but to *****.


You have no choice but to cry:
Yet your sacred spillings prompt
your pen to fly.

I love so few
I love so little
And the ones that i do
Don't love me back

The quite

Beckons a peaceful bliss

As he sits upon his perch
In rumination

His mind can't fathom

What his heart
Already knows so

He sits and wait patiently

Drunken off tears of libation

Staring into the distance

Hoping that one day
Perhaps

His love
Resurface

Years after the breakup with a pervert she once loved,
She promised herself never to remember him again thereafter.

But ah!
Her eyes welled up yet today,
seeing his smiling pictures in her gallery and on his social updates.
And she half smiled with her tear flooded eyes again*


(P.S- Is it love, still!!? Why can't some memories and people leave us permanently:(  )

As a young gal I married a much older boy,
he was 8 and the love of my life.
Then we divorced when I met Nathaniel;
his blue eyes and love of trains were dreamy to say the least
we never spoke much though
the marriage was unrequitted.
Today I love only writing
people are too animal to keep commitments,
they must eat and hunt and reproduce to repopulate
words simply listen and convey
can be flaky at times when there isn't a word to describe an idea
but at the end of the day
words will not die
unless they are latin
and when enough are written
you will never feel lonliness or discomfort
but only inner peace and relief.

Soft sighs from tender lips give ache
To heart in shadow made afraid,
to dare to beat to burst to break
for fear his words be over played.

His fingers pluck the withered bloom
to dry his eyes of wasted tears,
then casts it out into her room
and moves in shade as she appears.

No artists brush nor sculptor hand
er formed so sweet a female face,
nor could the playwrite nor poet grand
could pen such form with natural grace.

Again I fain from being seen
and risk rejection in your eyes,
as there you stand my love my queen
and I your fool wear nights disguise.

Morning born on silken wings
Illuminates where once love stood,
as unrequitted love now brings
a longing ache to cool the blood.