Will You Ever Love Me Again

I was a dunce; I was foolish.
I always thought you will stay,
you will be patient, you will always be mine.
I was stupid; I was a joke.
I believed my self-made fantasies
of us blending in–quietly and unnoticed.
And I counted all the things that I did wrong,
and there’s only one mistake that stands out
from the list of all the things that I did.
All the rest of my offenses can’t come close
to the look on your face when I let you go.
So I’m giving you the words of my love,
and I wrote you a poem with the words you spoke.
You said my love for you is weak:
it lacks depth, intensity, meaning.
My love is quite the contrary:
my heart turns a thousand cartwheels
every time you enter the room.
My love is passionate, full, and enthusiastic.
The thought of you drives me wild,
and my “I love you” means nothing but
“My heart bursts out in flames
every time I think about you,
which is approximately always.”
You told me I am insensitive:
that I only think of myself, my feelings–
not you, not yours, not us, not ours.
It is quite the contrary:
I think about you, about us,
about what we could be and would be–
but now, all those are could have been
and would have been.
I want to tell you all these and many more,
but I cannot reach you, and you won’t heed me.
Because it took me sometime to figure out
how heal up a heart that I broke down.
And I will search every ends of the earth to find you
and ask you, “Will you ever love me again?”

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