Why would I again choose?
Why indeed but to lose
All of those simple things,
Like love’s mean fairy rings?
The sun set a while ago,
Time dispels her quiet woe,
The stars are veiled tonight,
They can’t cast their soothing light;
The moon is guarded too,
Tonight she begins anew,
A new tale, a new spin,
Where again I won’t win.
All I sought in all this black
Was for love to love me back,
Since it can’t the way I choose,
I’ll just get ready to lose.
Some say, you love only once.
Some say, no conditions applied.
You know love’s trickier than that;
Those some didn’t mean to, but they lied.
Love occurs at various times.
It comes and goes, per its will,
Though it treats you to a grand date,
It, kind of, leaves you with the bill.
Some say, it is pure and pristine.
Some say, true love forever stays.
You find it can be hurtful and sad;
Those some didn’t consider all its ways.
Love is jealous and often mean,
It makes you fall against your will,
And then you find yourself alone,
Then you force your heart to be still.
Some say, it is God-like and holy.
Some say, it elevates the soul.
You hope it leaves you alive and sane;
Those some didn’t know it consumes you whole.
Love hurts and, if God exists,
It only makes Him the best:
For when true love scraps your heart,
It is flung back to His chest.
So this is how death in love begins:
You stop saying small good mornings,
Berate those insignificant sins,
You once thought of as delightful things.
You take away what I am now used to,
For those are deeds you forget to do;
But I remember these parts of you,
For they were what made your heart feel true.
I am more difficult than I know;
But that is what you already knew;
Now you see what you chose to ignore;
Difficulty seems like something new.
I don’t believe you love me no more.
I do not think any less of you.
But you seem like others gone before,
Past lessons all seem truer than true.
Love is often such that finds those
Who pursued you claiming forever
Forgetting the vows they made in throes,
When your own love starts to endeavor.
Maybe the condescension of time
Is meant to be, is meant to be,
And all feeling is meant to decline,
Regretfully, regretfully.
Hearts Still Care 
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