I sing you, with my voice, to sleep, and your voicemail sings me to sleep. It evens out. I often say this.
Love isn't the same here. Love here is full of cigarette smoke and fruit, kissed by flies before it's ever touched by my lips.
And yet, for some reason, I don't miss the love there. I don't miss the chase, or the brazen looks.
This isn't much of a poem, it isn't written in the style or (as my teacher would say) with the artistry of a true poem. But it is my two minute poem for you, even though you will not read it.