Seasons

This quarter,
Shiny, sleek.
I flip it over
And see a face:
Peculiar, unknown.
This faith,
Represented
By a face
I have not seen,
But whom I know—
Intimately.
A face who loves me
Unconditionally,
Abundantly,
But do I?
A question I mull over
Time and time again.
I think I love him.
I know I do.
I must love him.
I do love him.
But why?
Because he loved me first:
He brought beauty from my ashes
When I died to every value I had.
When I hated him,
He did not.
So do I love him?
Redundant,
But valid.

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