He sits by the window

He sits by the window
conjuring her laughter in the rain
holding even the seasons responsible
…for this wrenching ache
caused by nothing !
by some faulty wiring in his head !

(Perhaps his mom should call an electrician)

His familiars  are each day more slighted
in favor of the mythological
blinding deity in the velvet mantle
he sees as Love

As if Love were not living, not alive
a grace bestowed to both
always to be nurtured by two

As if Love were ever given or taken
when in fact it can only be shared

Does he believe those around him
are unaware, that they do not see
that they do not care ?

This inanimate thing he thinks he loves
is less than a picture on a postcard –
he is wasting days of his life
on a postage stamp !

How foolish he will feel when he wakes up
and evaluates the precious hours spent
as there is truly no such thing
as unrequited Love…


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