Or, do you not know?


I still have no idea what we’re doing.

Sometimes, I hate myself for fearing

if you could, would you rather

recover former pain than risk it anew?

Because I, too, have loved and bled.

But I do not miss my past

more than I want a better future.

I’ve been content;

it’s an insidious state, 

luring one onto a complicit plateau.

Your company makes me happy.

I wake up hoping and plotting ways

to make you smile.

Don’t you know who I am yet?


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