I Don't Know Why I Love You

I don’t know why I love you.

It must be the bolero in my soul.

We’re rivals -- opponents -- we’re opposite poles.

You’re always in need of the things I can’t give,

and what I can offer, won’t help you to live.

I seek you in others, but can’t ever find you,

keep trying to free you, but just seem to bind you.

There’s nothing between us that we can agree to,

but I call out your name, even when there’s no need to.

 

I don’t know why I love you.

I tread very carefully -- you hurl yourself in.

I just want to love you, but you want to win.

Your image in mirrors is oddly askew:

you have all these facets, but which one is you?

I’m pinching myself, but I still don’t accept it.

When I wrote all my hates in that poem, you kept it.

 

If I wasn’t so eager,

you’d treat me far better.

I’m like some red setter

who, battered, beleaguered,

just wants to run free,

but the faster I scamper,

the more I am hampered

by the rope around me.

 

I don’t know why I love you.

This can’t ever end in a fiery fandango,

still less in a sensuous, smoldering tango.

Are you just playing, or are you in deep?

This should be bliss, but it’s wrecking my sleep.

Sometimes I think I can take you or leave you,

but I lie to myself, so that I can believe you.

 

I don’t know why I love you.

A love such as this has no value, no title,

there’s nothing about it that’s wholesome or vital.

You offer no future, you come with no past.

There’s nothing in this that is likely to last.

I’m like a leaf, getting blown here and there,

and only content when I’m up in mid air.