I think about love
A lot
Even when I push it to
The furthest reaches of my mind
How desecrating
Apathy –
Yet, a place
to retreat
That brings some quiet
Discomforting solace.
Despair.
I tend to love the broken things
But beg, do not break yourself
For me –
How beautiful you must be.
I love them so much
The misfit toys
I guess
Sometimes
I fix them,
As love is suppose to do
Lift them up, so beautiful.
I like to imagine
Loving something, just for me
As we all might do
Not “untouched” or
Some absurd idea of perfection.
Strange
Because
It’s not as though
I’d want them shunned
Or some such –
These circles of love we walk.
Maybe someone, something
Made me that way
As I am, or was
You see
Worried
That I won’t love them,
But not a parent
Whimsy
These foolish
Childish thoughts
I suppose
We might all do that as well –
Much like recreating ourselves
Or some such
Folly –
Not quite original.
Exhausting.
Lonely.
Poetry
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