The First Time
The first time I went to her, I told her I loved her.
She replied, “Love? What do you know about love? Come back to me when you have had a few more lovers, a few more heartbreaks, then you’ll know if you truly love me.”
So I went out, and loved and lost, and gave it all away, for she was the only.
The Second Time
The second time I went to her, and told her I loved her.
She replied, “Love? What do you know about love? It’s one thing to love me as you are now, poor, with nothing to your name. Come back to me when you are rich, when you have made something of yourself, when there are scores of women throwing themselves at your feet, then you’ll know if you truly love me.
So I went out, and made and lost and gave it all away, for she was the only.
The Third Time
This time I did not tell her that I loved her. For she was already taken, beloved to another, a poor man, of no acclaim, with barely a few relationships to his name.
Then I remembered, that the shadows of memories were mere figments of my imagination, hatred, and self-doubt. A projection of what she would say, not what she actually thought. That I had never spoken of love to her…even once.