David Whyte
Admit,
your distant love affair is with yourself,
and that no one can play harder to get:
the unwritten letters, the plays for time,
the heartbreak over never being properly answered.
That coy look of false seduction in the mirror,
or that hard look to hide what should not be hidden.
The invitation to undoing, and to allowing yourself to want at last,
what you feel you never deserved,
the fervent wish to come closer,
and the loving word of understanding you say to yourself
when you finally admit to it all,
the only declaration that counts.
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