It was his presence that drew from me a kind of respect that connected to my heart, and grew into a kind of love that was satisfied with not having love returned, for as a tall tree on a warm day in June, I was satisfied to be in the coolness of his shade.
Then one day my passion reached a zenith, and as the noonday sun can be so hot, to be in his shade no longer satisfied me.
It is one thing to love, and another to fall in love, and I fell.
What I feel is not really love though, in as much as it is a wish for love.
It is a wish that he could be what I imagine him to be, and that is not love.
My love for him is all daydreams made of knives that slice through the fabric of my fantasies, causing reality to bleed through, staining my wishes with the truth.