He ; a subject to be listed under love.
Where does a speck of dust belong?
He is everything and I'm some parts him.
I've confused him with everything except myself. Sometimes things are better off without a clarity.
He is so good at being himself.
I can't love him like he does, I wouldn't love him I love myself, at the very least, I must love him like I love him, like that's the only thing close to love, if not closest.
If I were to say I'm a portrait, just a self portrait, I'd have found some self love in here, but now what I find in it is love, what I've for me is no self love, but a love like I love him, close to it, if not closest. I'm some parts him.
On days he confuses himself with me, I try to love him less but he is so good at being himself. Loving him is also a part of a self love, I say on such days and end up loving him a bit more.
To love him less is like loving myself. I wouldn't want a love like that for him. I'd love us both like I love him, close to love, if not closest. I'm some parts him.
He is everything and yet can be trapped in nothing.
I gave up on measuring him long ago, there's nothing that can trap everything.
If I were nothing I'd have stayed a bit away. I'm some parts him, I say.
He said I can keep him, I kept him in a wait, on fingertips, on eyelids. It's not easy to stay, I said.
He said I can keep him, I kept him. He has been staying.
He stays. I've confused him with love. He is so good at being himself.