Wasted have been many a day and night,

Wistfully wondering-

At  your latest slight.

Perhaps some blame is on my knife-like tongue.

Countless a deed I undertook

But alas still stubborn senses

Think you be besot by another’s look.

Though that matters not to me.

Yet truth wants nothing to do with those harsh words.

Your confident smirk met by my forceful shove;

Then again-

When was anyone ever sure of love?