is not hate.
Hate is too close, too strong
and shares too much passion with love.
They are young lovers meeting secretly in the dark
sharing new kisses, new curves, new press
of body on body.
The opposite of love
is more like numbness.
A feeling of wanting to no longer feel.
Of turning a face away instead of
being eager to be seen, to see.
It is too many nights alone,
too many apologies unsaid.
It comes in flashes, like
photographs you'd rather not go over again.
A scrapbook of regret, of missed moments
Saturday, April 25, 2009