when one of you has it bad

(the fault, dear brutus, is not in our stars

but in ourselves, that we are underlings – shakespeare)

 

i’ve tried not to love you but here i am again

knocking on your door hoping you will let me in

it took you twenty-two days to return my text

twenty-three days ago is when we last had sex

 

i know i should self-respect and kick you to the curb

but all i do is think of you and how love is a verb

i think that you have need of me though none is ever said

while you are every poem i write and everyone one i’ve read

 

when at your place caress your face and whispers words of love

you make me leave without a trace and smack me with a glove

but then you summon me to crawl and i drop everything

i tell you you’re my all and all while showing you a ring

 

but you will ask some sort of task then send me without sex

then halfway home you text me back for some special effect

i taste a tidbit of your love like blood let from a sword

then halfway home another text how tidbits are rewards

and though i know we’re incomplete in you completing me

i come and worship at your feet as only what you need

 

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