Of all the words I have written

Of all the words I have written
The most beautiful and best were written for you. And I never shared even half of what I have written to you because I feared they’d have meant nothing to you, and they’ll never see the light of the sun but will eventually, I hope, fade from my own memory. And I miss you every day, but I know it is best to stay away. Because I am damaged. I need more reassurance than you would offer, more than its fair to ask for. I hide my feelings out of fear from a life time of conditioning to such. I hate myself for loving you. And I wish I could forget you. I wish I weren’t some silly hopelessly in love fool. And most of all I wished you’d have loved me, too. As intensely as I have loved you.


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