I dated  a poet once
who thought my eyes
were brighter than the sun.
I was his muse,
his life revolved around me.

He gave me a poem once.
He was nervous
the note was moist
in perspiration.

The brightness in my eyes
made him see I was the one.

But oh,
little did he know

the fire burning
in my eyes
was not for him
but for something more.

I was his sun
and he dared not to
stray from his orbit.

I thanked him
and walked away
because what I wanted
he could not offer.

I dated a poet once,
who does not write anymore.
I took his fire with me,
forevermore.

I feel as though I am constantly chasing after love
but the only thing I’m chasing is the bitter taste it leaves behind.

I can’t stop.

People like short poems,
But do poems like short people?