Through sorrow comes the tiniest understanding, a lesson learned too late sometimes. As I flail in your ambivalence I have to wonder if the seed ever rooted at all or why too long I danced the clown's part? There is no hope in you settling for me nor wondering if I was your fear's reward. Gradually loving less is a slow mercy for the most heart sick of broken men. Rejection erodes into wild obsession by loving you more. May the tides quickly level themselves steady and my soul complete itself alone and return to something new, something worth giving away all over again.
