You are not worth all of those tears spilled.
Tears so numerous they’d need a desalination plant to make them potable.
Tears so plentiful that without sandbagging, the river would burst, unstoppable.
And yet, those tears fall still.
You are not worth all of those sleepless nights.
Tossing around ideas for planned conversations.
Turning over memories like toasting marshmallows, mistaken
By the gravity of the moment, rose-tinted sight.
You are not worth all of this constant pining.
Wistfulness missing of a you that doesn’t exist,
Each word or action a balm or violent lurching twist.
To love you is so confining, confusing, so tiring.
But if you are not worth all of these things
Why do you still have a hold?