My love is not cheap, as my mind would ponder, but is a love that seeks expression. Crushes coming and going, and yet they are not the one. Is it that my love is given so freely, or is it agony pulling at the heart, by having patience for the "one"? Is my heart seeking expression so strongly in wait for the one that I must fight it? Is the love within me so strong, that to wait is torment to the soul?
I wait... and with every skip I feel as if a harlot. But it is not so... for indeed, it is a love that seeks expression, and with every sorrow thought that I ponder, I know that such love is in the yonder.
I know that which I seek, tears pouring and pillows soaked. It is "the one", with whom I shall be equally yoked. Perfectly. And, so here I am in wait, but may the passing emotions not breed within me a hate. Not for others, but of myself. I know who I am, and it is not that I so easily gaze upon the opposite sex. No, but my heart is vexed. It wishes to care for all it sees, that is its confession... so I say again, it is not cheap, but is a love that seeks expression.
I wait... and with every skip I feel as if a harlot. But it is not so... for indeed, it is a love that seeks expression, and with every sorrow thought that I ponder, I know that such love is in the yonder.
I know that which I seek, tears pouring and pillows soaked. It is "the one", with whom I shall be equally yoked. Perfectly. And, so here I am in wait, but may the passing emotions not breed within me a hate. Not for others, but of myself. I know who I am, and it is not that I so easily gaze upon the opposite sex. No, but my heart is vexed. It wishes to care for all it sees, that is its confession... so I say again, it is not cheap, but is a love that seeks expression.
