Love is never wrong, but it can be mistaken, we condemned to
interpret it, like tea leaves, and we foolishly believe we read it right, only to
find out too late we missed some important detail that distorts its meaning.
We should trust our feelings better, not our brains, since
we are for the most part a scarecrow with hay in our heads, more heart than the
tin man has, but less courage than the cowardly lion, when it comes to making
our intentions clear.
Love is a base instinct, inspired by lust, which is never
enough, and we crows on and on like a centipede, stumbling, bumbling into the
heart of the person we profess to love, miscalculating, tripped up by petty
jealousy, trying to avoid the pitfalls we always fall into, thinking love is
enough, when it never is, though even now I feel it, even when unrequited, it is
what I live for, even in retrospect, cut off, yet not unmoved, having nothing
left to stumble towards, living with its regret.
No comments:
Post a Comment