Love in hand, ardent lovers are frequent, but devotion,
Adoration,
In most circumstances the limit is lust.
Lust? Devotion? Adoration? Are these feeble nouns aimed desolately at
‘Him?’
‘Her?’
No.
I am immuring beneath heartbreak; but no, not of love, but of lack.
Lack of lust, adoration, devotion. Love.
I repeat not of ‘him,’ nor ‘her,’ but of that.
Love of that familiar face, the one in my reflection.
Me.
I am my own worst enemy.
I am not brazen. Not of my own image.
Learn to love? I cannot say, the consideration of loving myself is as probable as finding the base of an abyss.
Improbable
Help me think of a title, maybe?
Any constructive criticism?
What did you enjoy?
What could I improve on?
What does this mean, to YOU?
