I want to be beyond completely clear:
The things I do for you I do for me.
You know, of course, that I love you, my dear,
But I'm not certain that you really see
Exactly what that means: the pains I take
To make you happy and to find new ways
Of turning what might once have been dull days
Into delights for you, will never make
Me tired, nor are they at all a sign
That I doubt you will stay with me. Instead
They are how I express that you are mine
And are the meat on which my love is fed.
I fuss because I want to; please believe
It's not because I think you want to leave.
No comments:
Post a Comment