(This may seem more of a saga than a poem, but bear with me readers)
He loved her.
He loved her without judgement,
without fear and without restraint.
He loved her,
with a love as pure as sunlight,
morning rays,
streaming through the leaves in a silent forest.
He loved her without demand,
without expectations,
without consideration or reservations.
He lost himself in her.
He lived her and breathed her.
She lived in his best thoughts,
in his hard work,
in his crushing disappointment,
hapless pain,
and again in his hope.
She was his reason,
to live and to grow.
He loved her.
It was merely that simple.
She wished she could love him,
purely,
just love and nothing else.
She wished she could love
without wanting to be loved in return.
She wished she could put aside her ego.
She wished she could shatter the delusions,
of what it should be.
She called him discontented,
but perhaps it had always been her.
Wishing for more and hoping for different,
but too proud to admit it.
She wish she had expected less from others,
and more from herself.
She wished she was more confident,
less double guessing and more sure-footed
about her dreams and the way she felt about him.
She wished she had given and given,
untill she nothing left to give.
She wished she could have been different,
then maybe things would have been different.
They sat together,
she and him,
She told him,
she wished she loved her man,
the way he loved his woman.
Ironically though, both were alone.
The selfless one and the egoist,
the romantic dreamer and the pragmatist.
Sometimes, it felt like they were alone,
in a bubble of grief,
looking at the world outside,
of what could have been,
through a colourful veneer of soap and water.
They were alone together,
a similar frequency of loneliness resonating,
often drowned out by work, alcohol, friends, television,
anything they could indulge in,
anything that would take the pain way.
His loss,
her guilt.
She and him,
alone together,
high on grief and enjoying the catharsis of life.
Sitting through endless nights,
just waiting for the sun to rise.
He loved her.
He loved her without judgement,
without fear and without restraint.
He loved her,
with a love as pure as sunlight,
morning rays,
streaming through the leaves in a silent forest.
He loved her without demand,
without expectations,
without consideration or reservations.
He lost himself in her.
He lived her and breathed her.
She lived in his best thoughts,
in his hard work,
in his crushing disappointment,
hapless pain,
and again in his hope.
She was his reason,
to live and to grow.
He loved her.
It was merely that simple.
She wished she could love him,
purely,
just love and nothing else.
She wished she could love
without wanting to be loved in return.
She wished she could put aside her ego.
She wished she could shatter the delusions,
of what it should be.
She called him discontented,
but perhaps it had always been her.
Wishing for more and hoping for different,
but too proud to admit it.
She wish she had expected less from others,
and more from herself.
She wished she was more confident,
less double guessing and more sure-footed
about her dreams and the way she felt about him.
She wished she had given and given,
untill she nothing left to give.
She wished she could have been different,
then maybe things would have been different.
They sat together,
she and him,
She told him,
she wished she loved her man,
the way he loved his woman.
Ironically though, both were alone.
The selfless one and the egoist,
the romantic dreamer and the pragmatist.
Sometimes, it felt like they were alone,
in a bubble of grief,
looking at the world outside,
of what could have been,
through a colourful veneer of soap and water.
They were alone together,
a similar frequency of loneliness resonating,
often drowned out by work, alcohol, friends, television,
anything they could indulge in,
anything that would take the pain way.
His loss,
her guilt.
She and him,
alone together,
high on grief and enjoying the catharsis of life.
Sitting through endless nights,
just waiting for the sun to rise.
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