I ask you
why.
Wrapped within my question
is another.
Who am I to you
that is worthy
of your remaining?
I am the subject
of your poems.
A cursory glance
reveals pain
of sixteen persuasions.
I do not brighten your existence.
Far from it.
And yet
I am the subject
of your poems
as you
are the subject of mine
and perhaps
that can be enough.
It has to be.
We are just two people
who found each other
and so are luckier than most.