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Every time I think of you, I'm delighted
I've tried but I can't fight it
You're the cream of the crop
The one that makes my pounding heart stop
The essential part that I always missed
I hope you are starting to get the gist
Of my unerring feelings for you
And how I hope you wish for our pairing too
If you never knew
I'm sure now you do
I adore you Valentine
I'm sure I'm just another in the long line

I'm privileged that I get to say
You've been mine since one wonderful day
That you said yes.
I must confess
That at times I seem unworthy
Of your unworldly
Caring and compassion.
You do it in such a fashion
That reminds me
That I couldn't see
A Valentine's Day
That I'd keep my feelings for you at bay

Because I hate and love you simultaneously
I felt the need to ravenously
Mix together each emotion
Into one big literary potion
So you'd know I set you apart -
Gave you a tall pedestal in my heart
To destroy later or heighten further
To treasure or to murder
This here poem to enchant
And say the words I can't
I like the fact that you're always a friend
Or an enemy but always to the end
To whom this may concern
May, for you, my hate-love passion burn

Love is an impossible, trite word and a rare occurrence. It is as possible that a bird's blood will mix with a steed's to create a mutant thing of awe - yes, only in those circumstances will I accept love for what it isn't. I wonder how many ways people interpret it: dedication, loyalty, and false fronts? I can imagine that's how the long-married would describe it as. Maybe youth would describe it as an onslaught or flurry of passion and raw emotions. Newly weds - too hopeful to believe in the veterans' status quo and too mature to cling to old thoughts. And the single, heh. I may speak for myself: Visible but aloof - on the zenith of the horizon - beyond me now but not beyond my reach. It's pathetic that I have some glimmer of hope to find someone that's willing to stick by me. I'm better off as a lesbian - no evidence thus far makes me seem "mate-able". I know I'm bitter, shy, and introspective and perhaps I blame the world for letting me close in myself. My distorted view on most things are mostly mine alone. But then again, I don't have peers with whom I can speak about "love" with WITHOUT dropping hints that there someone on the horizon for me - a prospect. Bah, at least for me - this seventeen year old house ridden recluse - it seems unattainable but within my reach like most things in my life. But I guess that's what happens when you believe in Naturalism rather than fight it - like Ethan Frome. Oh Edith Wharton, you poor dissatisfied wealthy woman. If only we could discuss this.