I searched everywhere for love.
I knocked on every door
and turned over every stone.
But it was only until I returned home
that I found love
waiting for me.

Some people’s self-esteem was secretly improved when they discovered that their then-lovers had killed themselves over them.

I spent all night
weaving a poem for you
to wear. You look so beautiful
when you wear my light.

You think that you’ve moved on.
That you’re happier
and now that you think about it –
you’re quite glad
that it didn’t work out
because you are free
and happy.
You’re so happy.
And it’s better this way.
“Here,
let me tell you my reasons,”
you say. “Let me explain
what I mean.”
After hours of telling
your neighbour and
the florist
and the girl on the bus,
you conclude:
“So, you see? I’m happier now.

I write because the security of your love allows me to develop my craft without concerning myself with trivialities – as if your love could be any more complete. But I write, in the first place,
because of you, my muse. I write for your green eyes to glance at my humble words and for the pleasure of hearing you utter them.

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