The First of Love

The first I knew of love was pain
excruciating abandoned hell hate the world
but music was Everything and Books were everything but music

The first I thought I knew of love was pain
but really when I travel back the first I knew of love was joy. Such happiness,
then fear.

I shared my love, then fear
was shared with me, the same scale that
whiteblackwhiteandblack and all those shades of grey.

Will this make sense
of the world? Is this how
I’ll tell my story?

Why is the best time
of everything in the hours between midnight and six and
when will I sleep?
How can I be healthy and
calm enough to write?
I feel I need a schedule. A particular schedule.
I don’t hate the day
but I love the night but I want my nights
to myself. I want to be good all the time. I want
to be aware all the time. I want
my brain able
to function in clear harmony and I want
to love and be loved for eternity a(l)lways I want people to know that I was here
and that I loved. I loved them. I loved me. I loved us.

I loved.

I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.  I think I experience some sort of emotional trauma. Like she betrayed me. She betrayed me. Like she didn’t care about me at all. Not at all when it came down to it.
Did she love me?
Then why was I so easy to let go?


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