I fall in love
with those who then abandon me,
and am unable to return affection
to those who hold too fast.
What then,
am I the saboteur to my own will?
The author of my unhappiness?
Is it by some twist of my design,
a handicap of my own making,
that my flower of love
only blooms on the graves of ghosts,
who have long forgotten me?
Or on the winds of regret,
that dispel the myth of eternity?
In the shimmer of poignant memory,
faded into another's distant past?
In the arms of the fairer sex,
condemned by piety's vengeful wrath?
My fondest dream,
to be most important to someone else,
could I have undone its possibility,
by simply being myself?
Will I walk this life with my shadow,
dancing away the night with lonely?
Aching for the companionship I always lack,
because of my own incompetence?
Is this the cosmic joke,
played upon my existence?
To love deeper than others,
but to only find resistance.
To then have a heart grown cold,
torn by too many scars.
And be unable to welcome,
those who greet me with open arms.
