“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.