Ironic just how sick in love I was

[joel]

Ironic just how sick in love I was
when you embraced me. I’d measured me
inadequate for you, a heresy
against what you deserved—and then you loved
me, held the me I hated. Couldn’t you
continue hating me till I was worth
it in my heart as well? Well now I am
and health for love proves nothing but a sham.
You loved me cramped in utero. Could birth
beyond hard labor not produce what you
might love the more? What orbit stars have moved—
no love now makes more sense than you and me,
but you’re disinterested and I can’t see
a logic in false hope (who healthy does?).