That’s the one who doesn’t love.
My love was kindly desire, and when I presented
My charm and my libido, she consented.
I asked for more intimacy, and she relented.
I asked for her song, but she said she didn’t sing.
I asked for her story; her past had too much sting.
I asked her to remember us,
But she wasn’t good at remembering.
I asked her. I pleaded and asked,
Because I was in love. But she scorned, or laughed.
The more I fawned,
The more she yawned.
The more I wanted,
The less she gave, and the less she wanted.
The more I wailed at her wall,
The more she didn’t care for me at all.
The more I worshiped, as if she were God,
The more silent she was, like God.
But she had given in so many times—
To my desires, to my observant rhymes—
Something in her had to move
Against my insulting, superior love.
Eventually her sense of self would spring back.
She took revenge on my innocent love.
On the defensive for too long, she had to attack.
She did. I died. She did not look back.