If one repeats your name, or feel you when he awakens, or ponders your nature and drops a tear, Is this love?
I beg to differ.
The pain is the roses. Art is magnificent sorrow.
I can’t change what has occurred. I can shift perception.
Upon secernment, differentiating between reigns, knowing to some degree.
Holding it in, wondering about warmth, coddling with sins.
You have a skillset.
Another has pain.
Another has all the above.
I was looking at a furnace, feeling a kiln, adrift a planet; and Love would appear, and you would watch, something accordion in angst.
I tried to ignore myself. I’ve come to dislike what took place. Nevertheless, to maintain sanity, I must shift perception.
Another has the gift, tiptoeing my psyche.
