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Love, this word that so many use
not knowing the position
Just playing the field
4 letters spread across the tongue waiting to be delivered
Each blow waiting for the wind to ease it back this way
There is a lesson in the wait-
How are you to love me if you don’t know what loving yourself consist of?
Badgering over the silences left in between each line
Fixing on the “I do’s”
Digging deep into that crevices of the mind-
Games
Never seem to play old
How are you to love me if you don’t know what loving yourself consist of?
Let it Sit
Marinate in the feelings constructed by such question
Riddle me this…
