how unrequited must love be,
to be considered caught
in such hurt it drags the psyche
undeservedly distraught?
Is it when with each moment I yearn,
pathetically through the day,
a gnawing, niggling burn,
pain of parting in everyway,
a wounded heart I should spurn?
Or, past the pathetic, culpable bliss
of wallowing in the reprimand,
would it count that what I miss
Is more the moment than the man
More the idea, than the kiss?
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