He sits there on the stoop
with a somber look in his eyes,
with tears streaming down his face,
holding the poem he wrote for him—
the man he fell in love with,
A man he began to envision life with—
his head resting on his knees as he weeps.
He wonders what he did wrong,
why his outpour of love wasn’t appreciated,
his romantic gestures were not cherished.
He sits there questioning love—
Why can’t he find it?
Is he even deserving of it?
Did he love him wrong?
Was it too much?
He sits, ready to give up hope,
desperate for any chance at happiness.
All he ever wanted was to be loved,
to feel the warmth of one’s embrace.
For he has the biggest heart and loves purely,
giving his all to show his devotion.
But he knows, there may never be another like him,
not another soul that can love him the way he loves.
For he comes to realize that such shall be life— alone.
He laments, for he must live with a broken heart.
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