“Love acts beyond the phase wills it into – Hate is obscure, errs, is pain, furor, torn – a Lust to adorn aversion, hope, love eying its object joined to its cause, sees path into Things the future or now.”
(Zukofsky, “A”,116)

How unfair this affair is playing out.
How hopeful I am each time we talk sweetly,
share secret smiles and long locked stares.
How cold it feels each time your hand find another’s instead.
This started so long ago yet burns the same each time.
Still, for your attention and touch I will always fiend
How unfair that these seeds are planted so deep within my psyche,
I’ve been yours since age fourteen.