This isn’t love, you know.
You simply tolerate me, as I do you.
But your tolerance runs deep and steady for all my imperfections.
It is enduring and personal,
As though you only have tolerance for me.
To a hopeful heart, this would look like love.
But mine isn’t an optimistic one.
And you tolerate that too.
Your tolerance is unending,
But I suppose I can tolerate that.