i am in love with the solitude i’m left with.
it never leaves me be.
with every passing day i wonder more,
what really becomes of love.
how selfish is one’s need for love,
how cunning can kindness be,
in love is the sky with the soil beneath it,
how ironic that they never meet.
so time will pass as so will i,
with love for an excuse to end or survive,
how typical whether i agree or deny,
love is always the realest thing.