Oh, how wonderful it is to love, when all I feel is misery.

Pushed aside with little thought, but thought of me at best,

how happy he is standing there, do laugh without me, bitterly,

I stay next to, and press, the panging pain to clutch my chest.

The joy to bring him on his days, is not just me it’s theirs,

and when I find to spend the time, the time with them compares,

from deep within when no right given,

far away from me he’s driven.

“I’m marrying your sister love,” a surprise that fails in function,

“I see, oh well, I guess I knew, I wish you luck in your new junction.”

And though I see him as my first, my primer source of happiness,

to spend all day with him alone, and wish him dreams as sweet,

he does not see me as the same, far more a source of pettiness,

to write a letter once a day, his wishes more a bittersweet.

Am I the one not living, for myself and only me?

But what real good does “loving” have, when I am merely ought to be

A second-hand lover.