The Worth of Poetry

In a middle of a fight, you
asked me, what good are poems?
They brought us no money, no
return on my hours, time you
thought better spent on you.

And now, when what we were is not,
I can tell you: They let me
recall the sunlight on your bare
back, the scent of your neck,
the touch of your fingers on my chest.

But poems cannot undo what we
have done, cannot reverse our fall.
Their worth lies only in the truths
of which they remind us: I loved you
once. You loved me, too. That's all.

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