I’ve taken to dinner, made them and received them.
I’ve brought an amount of roses to match the years for their birthday.
I’ve wrote poems to express my profoundest appreciation.
I’ve filled pages of confessions about my passions for just that person to read.
I’ve whispered things into the ear of a lover that I wouldn’t dare say out loud.
I’ve sat at night in the middle of a field,
looked up with my arms full while my chest is being rested on.
I’ve cried into arms, and had my chest drowned in tears.
I’ve stroked to sleep while not being able to myself.
I’ve tended to, bathed and clothed.
I’ve nursed and been nursed.
I’ve held and felt the life leave.
I’ve experienced quite a lot with love.
And just as much with hate.
And what it is that I have in the end?
But that I had, and have had.

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