“No, It’s not good enough
this poem, on love”,

she said.

“It comes short, It’s falls flat
Love’s not this. Love’s not that.”

She read.

“You can’t force a rhyme each line
There’s no heart, just head”

I stared.

She was right
when she walked away
that night

A poem is not enough.
All poems end,
and true,

not like love.