Wound Path

Is it still love if I settle for a love that has sank so deep,

into the sea of complacency?

Fallen below the waves,

to be tangled in the seaweed

It’s comfortable, it’s relaxed

nor do I particularly want to part paths

But is a love still a love if stagnant as

a butterfly after its last breath?

Is it cruel of me to say that at times

I cannot escape these thoughts?

But it feels though

it’s a love less than love

Contentment and dissatisfaction blur

especially when I think of our days as they were

full of excitement, exploring the world

rather than the dullness

of these apartment walls

Is it wrong for me to confess these feelings

only in lines of verse?

Can I still call it love if it’s a love that’s lost its passion?

Is it even still love at all?

Should I call myself happy,

when our red thread has faded to white?