This time, there isn’t a “you”
No beating hearts ‘still intertwined
Dear Reader, you know the “you”,
That perfect lover who leaves the poet behind.
This time, Cupid’s arrow misses its mark,
And in the dead of night, no secrets are whispered
No love stains my quiet home,
And I am left uninjured.
This time, the poems are confusing,
When they sing about sweet lovers
Somehow I can't relate
I'm just not attractive to others.
This time, I am alone,
And my aching heart is intact,
No fingers gently press my lips,
As I wish for human contact.
This time, I don’t need a man,
No other genders either, not today,
I’ve never dated anyone,
And yet, somehow, I’m still okay.
“You” is exaggerated anyway.