|
I
thought I am incapable of love. I
thought I had enough walls
around me
to protect me
from it. I
thought I had extricated, once
and for all,
the need for it
from within,
deep
within. I
thought I had succeeded,
that I had become
a self-sufficient man. But
I was wrong.
Wrong.
To the bone marrow.
Wrong.
To the spiral structure
of my very DNA.
Wrong. I
was wrong. The
need still lurks within. I
can feel it,
within,
I can sense it,
growing.
Growing.
Inexplicable. Love. I haven’t learned the art
of it. I don’t know how to reach
out for it. I have never experienced the
tough of it,
the glow of it,
the touch of it. Love.
I
have deprived myself of it,
all my life, -
the
joy of it,
the flow of it,
the taste of it, -
for
fear of hurt,
for
fear of rejection,
for
fear of losing control,
for
all the foolish reasons
in
the world.
In the world. Ah,
the depth of my folly.
The extent of my crime. Ah,
the shame of it. The
shame of it. Ah,
the shame of it.
|