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a fraction of love

Everytime I wrote of you,
it was a song of pain, a song of anger
and sometimes one of long forsaken longing.
These were just wrong words, written to hide
regret for our shattered vase,
wherein no flower could blossom.
If someone would have asked me if you were my first love,
I'd have said no, but that would have, at least partially,
been a lie, because
what we shared was not nothing, it was
more like a fraction of love.
Sometimes, when I saw you, it made my heart jump
but only sometimes and usually it was more of a leap,
a half-hearted leap for that matter.
And every time I felt butterflies when you drew near me,
I hurriedly whisked them away because
I knew they would never turn into
real butterflies.
You never had my whole heart although,
what you had was not nothing, it was
more like a fraction of my heart.
I never was quite sure what you felt,
all I knew was that it was something
swaying between everything and nothing,
most likely a fraction of love.
Being, both of us, ever-enchained
in this fraction of love,
each of us bearing nothing but
a fraction of the other's heart,
we tried, in different ways,
to understand eachother,
to free ourselves from fractions, finally
let go of one another,
move on to something full,
something other, someone
other, let
these fractions dissolve like a drop of ink in water.

6 Jan 07

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(38 more poems by this author)

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