You were supposed to love me.
But instead,
you reminded me of sitting in a dentist's chair
or not being able to find a matching sock
or early mornings and crowded public transportation.

And I was supposed to hate you for that,
but instead -
you reminded me of a new cashmere sweater
and the lullaby my mother used to hum to me as a child
and the books that line my shelves.

And even when you made me go numb;
I could still feel you every time I got a paper cut,
and see you in sun that sets late on a summer evening ,
and hear you in the wail of my alarm at 6 am on a Monday morning,
smell you in the daisies that grew by the trail,
and taste you in the bitter flavour of my medication.

There were versions of you in everything I hated and everything I loved in life
and now that you won't even look my way,
all I want is to stop living.

the problem with
being a poet in love,
is that you savour
& trust each word your lover has
without  question.

we are simply in love
with bare literature,
spoken from the lips of someone we hold
in higher regard
than ourselves sometimes.

when you love a poet
each word you utter,
should be a piece of artwork

each sentence,
a highly thought out structure of awe and beauty to leave us seeping
in the warmth of your voice
caressing such fine words

so when deciding that you love someone,
who writes or reads
fill their souls with beauty, memories & truth especially,
for a poet's heart breaks at ease.