i do not cry because i want to die
but because i’m afraid you will lie
or perhaps i’m more afraid you won’t
so confess i don’t
instead i cry
and my soul lets out a sigh
i fear you will never love me
i fear that i won’t be ever be enough to be she
whom you love
so hope often flies away like a fleeing dove
my heart is cold and desolate, like a dried up sea
your calm eyes beckon me
yet i refuse the call
and instead to my knees i fall
it feels pathetic
but to say i hate you would make me a heretic
i love the way you make me feel as a florist loves a rose
but yet hates the way the thorn still grows
and here i am wishing for bleeding hands