Quite accustomed to misery and pain,
and in agony -
I ruin anything good,
it seems.

I don't know how to handle happiness.
It overwhelms me with its untimely visits.
Its stay, always short -
and our goodbyes bring me to my knees,
begging for it to stay.

So accustomed to melancholy -
and crying to sleep;
so spoiled with feelings of worthlessness -
I'm unappreciative of anything good,
it seems.

I don't know how to handle a genuine love.
It overwhelms me with its joyful sensation.
Its pleasure, the heart scorching romance;
and I, in my misery and pain,
and on my knees -
hoping for it to stay.

Quite accustomed to loneliness,
and emptiness -
I ruin anything good,
it seems.

I was young when I first met her -
a teenager, and getting a hang of it.
I'd like to think I smiled more, back then.

I don't recall much before her -
even the little I remember feels surreal.

I had just experienced the sweetness of a first love -
staying up all night speaking on the phone,
exchanging silly, cute love messages read on the internet.
It was adorable, I tell myself.
Teenage love often is.

Then I met her.
She was quiet, and timid.
We barely saw each other -
but she was always on my mind.

At first, she'd only visit in the evenings.
As we grew closer to each other, she was around more.
She would swoop me away from friends -
she was jealous, and wanted me only to herself.
I was not cognisant of how jealous her love was.

She hated it if I was smiling, or laughing without her.
She hated it when I went to visit places without her.
She would be mad at me, if I did anything without her,
and I would cry myself to sleep.

So, to love her best and to make her happy;
I stopped smiling, or laughing without her.
I stopped going to places without her.
And I cried to sleep, even if she was not mad at me.

When I met her, she never gave me her name.
But I asked, I had to know her name.

Her name is Depression,
and I wish I never met her.

It was your voice, at first;
How you sounded -
Happy, but not complete.
Maybe you were and
I wasn't. I'm not.

Then, it was your eyes.
A cosmic gaze, but not too complex.
*****, but inviting exploration.
Dark, but lit a way -
brown, of an autumn sunset.

Then, it was your smile.
Small, but big enough to glare -
Often painted red with love,
A smile which stood out like sunflowers;
whenever you showed it.

Again, it was your voice;
How soft it became at 4am,
husky, when it loved me -
and loud, when it missed me.

Then, it was your hair.
The beauty of it fell over your shoulders;
Like artwork, when you waved it off your face;
to, again -
show off a smile that stands out,
eyes, that prompt being explored -
and a voice that demands being heard.

And, then, you told me your name.
Its meaning, light -
and it all made sense;
how you've illuminated my life -
from that first sound of your voice,
‘hello’.

“Don't you miss being in love?”, she asks.
I simmer, gathering myself  and my thoughts.

No, I don't, because I have not been in love;
Not in the manner I imagine it.
I have loved - beautifully, might I add -
But never have I been in love.

How can I have?
At my best, all I knew was to compel, persuasively,
someone into loving me -
the best possible way I knew how.
I revealed just enough of myself,
the beautiful of myself,
the parts of me that drew butterflies.

Hidden were the broken parts of me,
those which keep me awake, sleepless -
'til the moon kisses me goodnight,
in the last hours before dawn.

I am not, by any means, denying ever loving.
I have loved, blindly and beautifully.
All I have ever been good at was loving -
loving someone into loving me,
the best way possible.

But, all of their love was inadequate.
A love which always fell short of loving me,
the best way possible.

Love; inadequate:
Unable to express loving me,
unable to express themselves of loving me.

In turn,
I was slapped with sloppy efforts of loving me -
Vague inadequacies of love.
It was never enough, not remotely close,
to what I had imaged loving me would be.
It was short of ever arousing me internally,
short of wits to spiral me into being in love.

And so, how can I miss being in love,
when it has always been a feeling that eluded me?
How can I miss being in love, when in love -
I concealed the broken parts of me?
How can I have been in love when I was lonely, in love?

How can I have been in love,
when all I knew of being in love was to love myself -
by loving whomever loved the aesthetic parts of me?

Loving me has always been an infatuation -
an infatuation of the broken pieces of me,
coming together to create an illusion of a love -
an unsatisfactory love for loving me.

How can I have ever been in love when no one has known,
expressed, conjured the best possible way of loving me.
All of me.

Once more, up at the last hours before dawn -
awaiting the moon to kiss me goodnight, I tell her.

I'm single, a recluse;
all because a great personality isn't -
aesthetically pleasing.

Where do I begin? -
- Is a sentence even enough?

Excitement, odd excitement;
- my initial response.

The sort of excitement a parent has,
over hearing their young utter their first, full word.

That thrilling excitement, which overwhelms you;
as you sit and engaged in your first adult conversation,
with your parents.

Where do I even begin?
- the concealed excitement,
at your first date.

The introverted excitement you have -
as you tap your feet, while squandering a conversation,
with your first love.

But, where do I begin, I contemplated.

The excitement, a foolish one at that,
that makes you sing out your favourite love song;
while aware of the fact you are an awful singer.

The excitement, that nervous, yet squirm in excitement -
as you lean in for your first kiss.

What was your question?
I asked of her to reiterate.

Wandering, contemplating.
How she could sound so pleasant and ****,
while she maunders?

Excitement? I ask, rhetorically.
As I wonder how she sounds so beautiful,
without making any sense.

That kind of excitement.

But, she enquired for a single sentence.

I had more than one.

So, to single one out, I breathed slowly, paused;
- Can I get an endless day, where I am excited to be in your presence?

May I wrap my tongue with words I struggle to say out loud, and kiss you instead?