You can easily see how love turns into hate.
The problem is a person has to wait.
I could not bring myself to say goodbye to you
and the years passed so I didn’t have to.
The very thing that made me too attached
fed goodbye; a lonely plan was hatched,
and it was easy; life is full of sleep and sad
music in those distracting shows we watch
when exhausted; the best art is slightly mad
and it always comes down to one of those;
the trade, the error, the one that had to be,
when you rest, and resting, write poetry,
forgetting the fate of life’s gaps and design
when you are late as you write the last line.
Your poem will be analyzed later (and she
of course will not remember what you wrote)
and it will fail for the very reason that poetry
exists; and now the plain, uncovered note.