Ophelia

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I know I love you.
I know you know it too,
but is it fair for us to hold on to what we once knew?
To continue writing a story that is undoubtedly hopeless?
To drive each other toward an improbable future?

For once I want you to tell me:
do we have any reason to stay?
Is there anything left to keep us here?
I believe we just have a lot to let go.

I know you love me,
but do you really love me?
Do you love me for how I think?
How I speak?
Do you care to know the depths of me
or just what’s on the surface?
Tell me.

I know what I want.
I want you to love me for how my mind works,
for how the gears turn and thoughts become art.
I want to spend time with your mind
and not just your body,
and I want you to want the same from me.

I know I love you,
but I am in a haze of knowing whether you love me
and I’m drowning.
Not knowing your intention is bane.
So do I go mad as Ophelia,
so be it,
for it would only be fitting.
Then, maybe, you would go bewildered
and play the part as Hamlet,
then I would know you whether meant it.

So I’ll submerge myself into you
or maybe into the depths of my loving you
and divide myself from my fair judgement.
I’ll forget there’s a way out.
Simply forget that I knew how to swim
and allow my body to linger in a pool of cool blue.

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