A poets lament

could it be, inside me, something you see, that would make you be,
inclined to,
feel the same way I do?

It’s these late contemplative nights when delving into myself brings to the surface feelings.
As much as I wish I could hide them, they are there.  Are you doing this to me?  Am I doing it to me?  Is it you I want? Or do I merely want someone?

Maybe its just me trying to replace what is gone, and it doesn’t have to do with what appears to be genuine feelings.

It’s just so confusing.