I dare say, I may be unsuited for love—  
Or perhaps, merely wary, reluctant to surrender.
For though affection finds me often enough,  
I seem unready, unprepared to render.  

Love, to me, feels like the trembling line  
Of a sketch unfinished, just beyond sight.  
It may not be that love has forsaken me—  
But rather, I have yet to love myself aright.  

I await approval, to hear I’m clever enough to claim brilliance,  
Or seasoned enough to weave words into verse.  
Waiting, endlessly, for life to begin properly—  
Not simply pick up where another left off, rehearsed.  

Success? Ah yes, but not mine—  
Like a “before” portrait, a means to highlight change.  
To others, I appear disheveled, perhaps even misplaced—  
A drawer never opened, hidden, deranged.  
The house gleams outside, yet chaos lives within.  

To think myself unlovable? Foolish—yet, the thought lingers still.  
Even if my mind refutes it, my heart surrenders its will.  
I feel as though I am but the one before the one,  
A spectre haunting with hope, wishing not to repel anyone.  

Waiting—ever waiting—for permission to return,  
To be told I never needed to leave,  
That everything I left behind remains intact—  
My pursuits, my dreams, my hobbies to retrieve.  

They were never unworthy.  
Indeed, they were cherished beyond compare.  

I feel like a bookmark, slipped between pages to hold a place—  
Never quite the story itself, never granted the space.  
Ah, but if time would only pause!  
I would kiss each fleeting moment as it passes,  
Following every page until at last—  
The tale becomes mine, whole and steadfast...
For as love seems to be my jolly...I fancy it not...
At times I think and in a moment of evident foolishness convince myself that love for some reason is a beautiful thing , which in fact it is but not exactly for me....