No more rewrites
When you said you never loved anyone
As much as you loved her —
Why did I pursue?
Why did I think I could
Make you love me more
By being kind or calm or patient
Or whatever else you saw in me that moved you?
And then, when you didn’t,
Why was I content with second place?
Did knowing you loved someone more
Give me some secret thrill,
Keep me guessing, keep it fresh?
Clearly there is a place for second place
That I have yet to understand.