Unrequited Love Ying-Yang

Brenda Castro

A naive poem I wrote in high school

I know I should not.
I cannot although I really want to.
I’m inexpert and thus
my unrequited love is up to you.

To love someone like you,
I never thought I would do.
If I know what love is,
it is because of only you.

He was he. She–she. Dogs–dogs.
I saw everyone the same.
Then, a few months later I looked at you-
Thee... as sweet as aspartame.

“I don’t look at you like I do the rest.
I… I have my first crush
on a guy I barely know.”
Him–the first to make me gush.

“Nah, I’ve felt lonely.
It’s just my silly head.
You smiled at me. I want to be loved.
It’s not true.” That’s what I said.

Yet months later
this feeling had not changed.
I only loved you more,
knew it was not feigned.

I knew I shouldn’t have, but
“If you press me to say why I loved him,
I can say no more than because he was he,
and I was I.” ‘Twas at whim.

I came up with adroit plans
to be with you any given chance.
Given a hug once in a blue moon,
that was my romance.

You are just so affable and kind—
my haven—but you do not see,
for when you hug me it means so much more—
I want to hug you indefinitely.

I hold grudges over myself,
over superficial things… greed.
Yet if I had you they would not matter
because you are all I need.

Finally, my master plan succeeded!
I told you of my love.
You hugged me—the best moment of my life!
But you were still aloof thereof.

I thought you liked me.
Of course, only as a friend.
But now it seems I irk you,
which is not what I intend.

I’ll see you and say “hi.”
You may reply but without interest.
You have much on your mind, I know,
But… a conversation? Even the simplest?

I see you everyday,
always in propinquity.
And my heart cries
because you leave me.

How do I express my unsatiated desire?
Poetry is hard to interpret and love hard to explain.
Thus I turn to the poetic form
to purge of this feeling so arcane.

If you only knew I truly love you.
I know you do not love me the same way.
I know you do not mean to lead me on.
But I yearn your friendship each day.

Sometimes I see you angered,
critiquing yourself as subpar,
only because—as I want no one else to see—
you do not know how amazing you are.

Even your name could be no better,
meaning “gift of God.”
You are a gift to the world-
you whom I—and many others—laud.

I have a million and one reasons for this-
a million and one reasons I fell in love with not him but you.
And I know that when I looked at you that day,
I had crossed the Rubicon, leaving myself askew.

It has become quite the dilemma.
I want you, but the reality I know.
Yet as much sense as moving on makes,
you I cannot forgo.

You are not perfect, but—for me—you are perfect.
With you, I can be carefree.
I need you because I love you.
Now if only you needed me.

They say all who fall in love become a poet.
And that having thy unrequited love within reach hurts most.
I never believed either to be true,
but that was before I met you.