Lang Leav

Will you love me enough? Love me so much that your heart can barely hold it—that it would break every other heart you’ve ever held?

What I feel—I shouldn't show you,

so when you're around I won't;

I know I've no right to feel it

but it doesn't mean I don't.

“Do you love me?” I ask.

In your hesitation I found my answer.

In a sea of strangers,

you've longed to know me.

She lends her pen,

to thoughts of him,

that flow from it,

in her solitary.

For she is his poet,

And he is her poetry.

To new beginnings,

in fear and faith

and all it tinges.

To love is a dare,

when hope and despair,

are gates upon it hinges.

Love is a game

of tic-tac-toe,

constantly waiting,

for the next x or o.

To love him

is something,

I hold highly

suspicious.

Like having something,

so very delicious—

then being told,

to do the dishes.

I know that I don't own you,

and perhaps I never will,

so my anger when you're with her,

I have no right to feel.

I know that you don't owe me,

and I shouldn't ask for more;

I shouldn't feel so let down,

all the times when you don't call.

What I feel—I shouldn't show you,

so when you're around I won't;

I know I've no right to feel it

but it doesn't mean I don't.

I deplore,

being ignored.

For—

I am not a bore!

But it's perplexingly sweet,

and quite sexy too—

to be ignored,

ignored by you