"Write me a poem." you used to say
and didn't understand when I replied
I was too happy, too content and safe with you.
The things I wrote for other girls
came from my loneliness.
I said you should be flattered
that I didn't write for you.
Such laziness in love !
Too sure of you and glad to see you pleased,
(a moderate man, admiring the stoics)
I showed no jealousy at your flirtations
(such liberal, understanding views).
You thought I didn't care.
But now all things are changed and I am lost
from my control, drifting into memories:
remember where . . remember how . . .
when  we were here before . . .
so many, so many memories . . .
Suddenly come awake I brood in kin
with the rain and wet black night
and curse my niceness and understanding.
Here, have your poem.