You made the introductions,
Between sadness and me;
What can I do but take such soft hands,
which seemed to have only known a few.
When I looked deep into those watery eyes, I knew,
loneliness would be an eternal company.
For without knowing this emptiness,
How would I have known what your embraces were for.
No, I don’t need your love because I am sad.
I am sad
so that when your love reaches me,
I would know why all the time without it,
I was in misery.
People don’t ask for forgiveness sometimes,
not because of fear
nor of pride (nor of laziness).
They just see—it is pointless.
Maybe, if every time we say sorry,
we can also offer a witch’s vial—
a concoction to forget,
an agreement to forget.
Desire can be so powerful
to render one weak, yet free.
Yet desire can be the biggest coward;
rejected, unrequited, it hides.
Jealousy, the great traitor—
that which holds in suspension
outbursts, yet peeks out
through eyes, unveiling itself instead.
Arrogance, what else? A lie.
Again and again, a plea for consideration.
Poke a blind man’s eyes.
It will still hurt.
Rage. Passion. Fusion.
To create this great structure,
For you to try to chip off pieces, unknowing
that its fall could be your death.
Is there love there at all?
When infidelity takes a new name—
being true to (or, in your case, denying) one’s nature (blah!).
Semantics’ act of betrayal.
You give me not what I seek.
I hand to you what you don’t.
A constant swing between fascination and disappointment,
just another clash of indifferences.
Maybe, there is love there.
Why else would today be cursed with heaviness?
Only . . . I smelled the scent of great desires this morning:
yours for me waning, mine for you hiding. 03092007