Love is an odd thing.
You think you know, and then you don’t.
You say I love you, but who are you saying it to?
The you that you are or the you that you appear to be?
And does it matter? Do any of us know who the other
Is? We think we do but do we – really?
I am tired of trying to figure it all out.
Tired of trying to figure me out, never mind the other…
Those eyes, they look right through me, but not at me.
They look through me to someone else.
But there can be no anger in me for someone not loving me, sadness but not anger.
Such things are not under our control, I wish they were but
I know from experience they are not. We don’t always love the one who
May be the best for us, and we sometimes love the one who may be the worst.
I could never hate the one who is the object of the love not given to me either.
There is no reason to; she has no more control over such things than I do.
There is enough pain in my heart, I don’t need to
Add any more but
What I do hate is deceit, manipulation, crass
Indifference to the hurt that lies can cause.
Truth is always the best way and would have made all the difference,
but some just can’t see that, or maybe choose not to.
And that is their choice to make.
They have every right to their opinion, as I have to mine.