Love is not lust,
otherwise I might
have enough.
This division of feeling I feel
yet can't divide or decide
which is which and which
I ought to feel at
which moment,
my imagination
painting unreal
portraits of what
should be,
not so much disappointed
by the reality when
it comes,
but deeply awed.
I am unworthy to receive this,
this message vibrates inside me until I can't.
Things stirred up yet not quite enough to explode
, like a hornets' nest I have stuck part of myself into
only to get stung, confusing one sensation for another
until i can't tell
which is which
and find myself aching for something I can't achieve,
like a driver in a
Mercedes with a flat tire
on the side of
highway with no spare,
envying the men speeding by me,
each having a clear destination
and how to get there.
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