We do not tell them often that we do;
Those people we claim to love above all.
So sometimes they never would tell us too.
They’d leave us with gifts no matter how small,
Forgive us quickly and forget the wrong,
And still leave the handwriting on the wall.
It’s that type of loving that is so strong,
It weakens, brings down firmly built fences,
Looking for a place, a home to belong.
We’d learn to love at our own expenses;
Like on those days when we would start to feel,
And submit to the will of our senses.
The people we love, we can hate at will.
Hating is a different kind of love still.