So much of me

What stroke you to fall for a woman like me, I often wonder. I don’t write poems of love, long emails about how much you mean to me and how I crave your lips on my neck.

The idea of me was nice perhaps. The idea of me around always was even better. But what you forgot to contemplate of the idea of me with you always, was that poems don’t fall from the sky into your writing book. Passion neither into your blood.

When I miss you, I hug you. When I miss you, I check on you. When I miss you, I come home early. Every day was with you and every night was with you. I am always with you and the love poems are never born neither the emails with passion because there is not possibility of missing each other.

Perhaps I should not have given so much of myself to you. I should not have done so much. Spoke so much. Hugged so much. Kissed so much. So much of anything was not good for ‘us’.