You tell me it’s all fiction,
the poetry you write,
That reality is far fetched,
From the land your muse resides,
The so called “love” you’d written,
Are words without much heart,
And I wonder if you think back,
To the ring on your finger.
You’d ask of my opinion,
And of course I’d say it’s great,
But I wonder, don’t you think our love,
Is worth words on a page.
So I read through every single page,
With pulse at a heightened pace,
And wonder will this be the day,
Our love inspires poetry.