"Does he love me?"
"Does he love me not?"
Subconsciously, I feel your running water thoughts, and know exactly what you're asking yourself. What you want to ask me...
Yet you cannot gather the strength and I somewhat hope you never do, as nothing fears me more than professing a four letter word to another being...
Letting someone into the deepest and darkest parts of your being just cradles my fright so tightly...
Although I love the essence of you, the aura that makes up who you are, there's a cloudy haze of obscurity that shrouds me when I ask myself if I love you. Love is a mystery, one that's waiting to be solved. But, in this day and age, it's hard to identify what love really is...
What is real love?
Is it this?
As I'm sitting in this darkened room, blinds turned low, pondering on the authenticity of it all, I know I'm leaving you in limbo, in a purgatory of flower fields. Leaving you lonely with nothing to do but to pick off the petals of the nearest daisy, asking yourself one more time...
"Does he love me?"
"Does he love me not?"
And yet again I will serve you with silence, paining you more. I promise I'm not rolling in your hurt, it's just the uncertainty of it all. Now I wonder...
Do you love me?
YOU ARE READING
Paperlife.
PoetryA book of random flash fictions, prose, and some poems that I originally didn't have a home for. ~}{~ Highest Peak: #99 in Poetry
