Time tells me
I am ungrateful, thankless.
For this and that
are not of much importance
as once upon and I am learning,
 not to depend.
Although in my mind
I always ached for more
desired that you heard
or pictured me, within some mood
of pleasurable thought.
And when I hurt, to hold me
yet carry no blame.
None was offered,
I am my own influence,
not paved in virtue, I colour
my own course.
And as I remember this and you,
I travel one uncertain line,
backed into bed on comforts pillow,
appreciate brief, tender moments.
My need of you
unsated.