You say my poems don’t affect you as they used to
They don’t take your breath, flutter your heart
they don’t set your blood to racing, dizzy your mind
steal your legs, like they used to
Maybe its better that way, maybe it was all a trick
a sleight of hand, a ruse
Maybe my poems were all a show
a hoax of smoke and mirrors
Maybe they never mattered
maybe they were a distraction, a decoy
an unusual amusement
Maybe they were meant to keep you occupied
to buy me some time, to get to know you
the real you, the true you, and maybe now
what matters, is that my heart
is as close to yours as it could ever be
wherever you are
Maybe my poems don’t affect you how they used to
so I can finally rest, in an honest world
where the simple truth is enough
I love you