Yours Truly

Victoria? 

Tell me you love me. 

Words of woe and melancholy

Appealing voices of tenderness and tolerance

Your sympathy was quicksand and I was clueless. 

An arduous effort to not rhyme this scrawl

For you despise pathetic expressions of love, 

Like poetry that speaks of the moon and honey. 

Your idea of romance and your family are both engraved on pages of the same book, 

The absence of morals is what makes them so fascinating. 

What will it take for you to not call me your lover whilst being it?

What promises shall I make to not call your body mine whilst making love to it? 

I don't own this land or my mind

Both decaying waste of wrath and trouble. 

But isn't owning my heart enough content to yours? 

Victoria, 

My shelter, my power, 

You don't have to tell me you love me

But can you make me feel what it's like to be?