Just how much do you love me?
Is it hidden behind each unfinished poem that awakens you from your sleep?
Maybe it is hidden beneath your pained smile,
in the race in your heartbeat,
when you are on the way to be in my arms?
I would never know because
you hide it well.

How much do I love you?
So much that I watch you be unloved,
and not without conviction.
I trace your hope in love, and re-make
it to match me.
You nod in my direction, a ratification, saying that perhaps one day the beautiful
pain of past liaisons that you trust in so much will die peacefully.
I may be able to re-create your beliefs, and like a religious conversion you’ll be
devoted to only me.

But not yet.
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