ANTI-LOVE POEM
No, I don't love you
in spite of what I say
in the ecstasy of the act.
Don't preen,
don't worry.
It isn't
the way you think it is.
(How do I know what you think?)
Why do I feel guilty
that I am sometimes bored?
That I compare your
hands with other hands?
That I remember other faces
Better than I remeber yours?
It's not your fault.
Love is never deserved,
is mostly imagination anyways.
It's only fretfullness that cpomplain
you are not warmer, gayer, tenderer,
don't have brown eyes,
have the same faults I have.
Now that I have opened
all my doors to you,
could I close them again?
Would I really love you, maybe,
only if you went away?
Is unrequited love
what I always wanted
because it takes less time
than the other kind?
by Elizabeth Brewster
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