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?