• Two years ago I wrote something like this -
    A sonnet, to you, of love. How foolish
    I thought I could seal that poem with a kiss.
    But sweet words as those often diminish.
    My love, I wrote, ran through fields with no bounds
    Oh how blind I was to the walls that stood
    Around me. And how sweetly your voice sounded
    Of "I love you". Lies. A foolish falsehood.
    Love? How? You barely understood yourself.
    But, apparently, I knew just as much.
    So now we're friends, you put love on the shelf,
    But you ignore me. You're not even as such.
    Hate you, I want to hate you, but I can't.
    'Cause, in your special way, you're holding my hand.