What is it about her?
Please just give me something.
Anything.
Why did you decide she was the one—or the one that followed?
What was it about them?

And I’d ask you, if I could,
but I fear the answer is so painfully obvious to you.
So I stay the poet, watching them.
With you.
I'll just write another poem about you,
or maybe two or three,
trying to figure out why you loved her so much.
And not me.

You would laugh at me—
laughing about how silly I sound.
And I'd laugh...