If love is patient, what is it to me?
For I’m too weak to wait until it comes.
I need it now, but it does not need me
to feel its presence or to know its sums.
I cannot add it up, so I subtract,
dissect it into bytes I comprehend.
These fragments my own brokenness refract;
my actions just my sanity upend.
I feed into this culture of defeat,
join the addictive cycle as it spins,
detain my fear by fighting for false peace
of mind, but not of heart; thus folly wins.
But love – if patient – grants me quiet space
where structure gives me freedom hell to face.