Why do I love?
I could list attrbutes, which become skinny excuses for my affection...
I hate inflicting options at the beginning, though.
This: Hell to get along without.
Someone with his grace should, by necessity,
be given as a gift
And the world should tease him and make him smile.
I should be by his side to share his moods~I
wish to be with him
To be his is my dream, to have and to be had
A participant in possession
Know that those fingers I grasp are mine for this while
When he unconsciously betrays emotion I want to
know what it means
Few things seduce my curiosity better than
asking myself, "Is he thinking about me?"
* * * * *
I love to be loved---to live forever
The mesmerized hours in sudden, lingering touches
Moody eyes touching, sliding, connected with
tacky fetters of mutual brooding thought
Or muttered words lowly spoken before garrelous crowd-working.
In the minutes of living those scenes
and the subsequent hours of reflection, memory,
conversation, dissatisfaction, and pain
There is a fragment of forever, wedged in there
Maybe I can die in comfort
if I can believe that somebody
once felt for me what I felt for him
Love transforms from gratitude,
and in the face of guaranteed reciprocated sweet feelings,
turns your lifetime into several:
those lives under the season of love,
and existence in want.
Each love is a new life, and the end of each love a death,
but a death which brings new hope.