One side has chosen, the other waits,
one side already loves, the other, afraid,
witholds the word, tender of being hurt.
I have already said to myself that I love you,
but on hearing this I recoil,
fearful of calling love "love,"
of naming the feeling that arises within me,
the feeling that reaches out to you,
and only to you.
What if the answer is not there,
and this feeling, the word, my love for you,
meets only your refusal?
It is a question I cannot answer,
for one side is blind to it,
while the other fears it.
But they are not two, but one,
an alternation of a self,
which cannot help loving you,
and yet is afraid of not
being loved by you.