love is a complex
of expectations — mine of
myself, yours of me —
we are the mould smashed by love’s
unbridled simplicity

I’m not sure this really works. The idea of love smashing its own expectations is a bit too convoluted. I dreamed of my father and sister. He had given us both some kind of gift which fell short of expectations. I suddenly realised (awake) how constricting ‘love’ can be, or the expectation of love. How absurd, that we should spend our lives chasing an idea!


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