An Unrequited Mystery

The following is a series of poems that I wrote during a time when I felt like I was truly starting to fall in love. Feeling romantic love for someone was a concept I've had seldom experience in, and even less experience being able to tell if that love was reciprocated.

#1. He Loves Me

He listens to my music.

And by listens, I mean he

Trusts that I have great taste.

But I wonder if,

With the songs

He ends up liking,

The very songs that

Make me dance and move

Make me cry or smile

That make me feel something,

Make him feel something too?

When he's by himself,

Listening to my recommendations,

Does he think of me?

Does each song remind him of my presence

And do the songs that make me feel,

Do they make him feel in the same way?

#2. He Loves Me, Not

I'm finding it harder than usual

To go to sleep at night.

I lie awake while thoughts of him flood my mind.

Visions of us together

And we seem happy.

But I'll quickly realize

These are just hallucinations.

And the reality is,

He’s not thinking of me before bed,

Like I think about him.

I know he has trouble sleeping at night.

I bet he wouldn't, if I were there.

I know I have trouble sleeping,

Because he’s not here with me.

#3. He Loves Me

Sometimes when my emotions

Become too strong, too unmanageable,

And my imagination takes control

Of all my waking thoughts,

I’ll convince myself,

I need a break

From everything and everyone.

A period of isolation

Would do just fine.

But it’s hard to push myself

To take a break from him.

Because I'm an addict and

His absence creates

A void I never knew existed.

I used to like being alone.

In fact, I used to be alone

All the time, not on purpose.

But out of circumstance.

And now, I couldn’t imagine

A day without him.

And I think he can’t go a day

Without seeing me,

Since he’s the one

Whose idea it was, to see

Each other today.

And the next day.

And the next.

#4. He Loves Me, Not

All my life, my only social goal

Was to make people smile.

To make them laugh,

To make them think

That my mere presence,

Could light up their world.

Sometimes

I feel as though my humor

Is the only thing

I have to offer another.

And I know he knows this;

He’s told me. “You’re really funny,”

And that makes me blush

More than if he thought

I was the most beautiful person

In the world.

But what does he value?

Humor over beauty?

Sometimes I can’t tell.

It’s harder when all

Of our conversations

Feel effortless.

Especially while,

He's making me smile.

And he's making me laugh.

Congrats, you've entertained

The entertainer.

But I still feel like a clown.

Just not the funny kind.

#5. He Loves Me

He has many realizations these days.

I know this because

He likes to tell them to me.

But I’m still waiting,

When he tells me

He finally had the realization,

That he like-likes me.

I'd like to hear about that one.

When he’ll tell me

How HE thinks

We'd be good together,

That would be the day.

But I think we both know,

I’d be good for him.

But do we really know,

If he’d be good

For me?

I wonder if

He’s figured that out yet.

I haven’t.

#6. He Loves Me, Not

What is wrong with me?

Is something wrong

With me in particular?

Am I not

Hot enough?

Smart enough?

Funny enough?

Pretty enough?

Rich enough?

Or is it that I’m too much?

Too good-looking?

Too smart?

Too funny?

Am I so

painstakingly beautiful,

Or interesting,

Or intelligent,

That it could be,

He finds me so

Overwhelmingly intimidating?

Too intimidating to love?

#7. He Loves Me

I steal glances at him,

And I really can’t help it.

I wonder if,

He’ll go out of his way

To see me, to talk to me.

I also wonder if,

He steals glances at me.

I never catch him looking,

But every once in a while,

I’ll look over,

And he’ll wait until

He’s caught my attention.

Were those stolen glances?

I swear that every time

those light brown eyes look at me-

I'm not myself. I am weak,

Weaker in those moments,

Than I’ve ever been in my life.

But in that moment,

I'm anyone I want to be.

And I want to be his.

But I also know that the way

Brown Eyes looks at me,

Is nowhere near the way

He's looking at anyone else.

I wonder if he realizes,

Or if he’s made the connection

Every time he looks over at me,

Especially in those moments

When I’m not looking back.

#8. He Loves Me, Not

I’m not going

To say anything.

Why should I be the one,

To say anything, yet something?

Last time I checked,

It was his turn.

If something has to be said,

And it will be said,

He’ll be the one to say it,

To say something.

I had already said something,

He already knew how I felt.

Even with the time,

That had passed

Since my last confession,

Now, the ball was in his court.

And if he wanted to score,

All he has to do,

Is pick up the ball,

And play this game.

Or if it's easier,

Then playing games with me

he could just say,

That he feels something,

Anything.

#9. He Loves Me

When we're with others,

I wonder if,

They can see our spark.

Not so much a chemistry experiment,

But a lesson in renewable energy.

Others have a hard time,

Matching our energy or

Riding our wavelength.

I wonder if,

He noticed we outpace them.

Maybe they just think

We're realllllyyyyyclose. Like

Twin flames burning too brightly

Near the sun.

If our flames intertwined,

Would others be surprised?

Would they tell us,

"Finally, it's about time."

Do they see what I can see? Does he?

And if so, when will they let him know?

I wish someone

Would let him know,

Because I can’t.

It can't be me.

#10. He Loves Me; He Loves Me, Not

He's not into me,

I tell myself over and over.

He just wants to be friends.

I say it again and again.

But honestly, it seems like

He wants to be very close friends.

Too close of friends.

And now I've become delusional,

Because something’s not right.

I come back

To the same obsessive thoughts

Over and over,

Again and again.

Despite my own warnings,

I still wonder if

There’s somehow a chance,

A possibility, a hope,

That the feelings are

In fact confirmed,

To be returned.

Without his confirmation,

I have no way to know for sure.

And not knowing,

Makes me a bit delusional.

My chance at love,

Cannot be based

On picked-off flower petals,

Each petal pulled one by one,

Over and over,

Again and again,

Every time I need,

Someone, or at least, something,

To tell me I’m not being

Deluded. Used. Manipulated.

I’d ask him directly,

I’d ask if he loves me,

Or if he loves me, not.

But I fear that if I do,

I may not like the answer,

Since I can never know for sure,

Until he tells me himself,

Whether he loves me,

Or loves me not.

Thanks for reading until the end of my poem!

Here's more pictures of the featured cover art for this poetry blog:

Titled "Emotionally Unavailable"

Writing Out Painting Idea

Rough Sketch of Heart & Brain

Painting the Heart & Brain

Cages added around organs

Final Painting