The feeling of being yours, yet being unable to call you mine.
I get it now. From the start it’s like you’ve made up your mind. That you didn’t want anything to do with me.
Maybe I knew this feeling would come, and try to rip more out of whatever is left of my heart, which you had left in pieces. You knew, too, that I never stood a chance.
So why didn’t I regret a thing?
For once, love didn’t feel like a mistake. Not with you. I’m one of those people who thought they were better off not having met the ones who nearly broke them, but if I hadn’t met you, I wouldn’t be who I am now.
Do you know of this feeling? I bet not. You never seemed to like poetry, so you probably won’t understand the sadness that has begun to swallow me whole, ever since I tried to explain what it is about you that I find lovable enough to hold on to you desperately, and keep you from slipping away.
So I would tell you instead: I love you. Not because I want you to love me, too, but because you made me realize that my heart is still capable of loving someone.