It never used to be so hard.

You called me,

‘beautiful’.

You told me

you needed me.

Now, what difference

does wanting make,

when fishing for the right words?

I cast my line

into your pool,

yet it does not tickle

your appetite.

You do not take the hint

anymore,

and leave this morsel

to rot in the sand.

I cast in flight

the lines;

the feathered lures,

jerking the line to make the words

dance,

to tempt you, as naked,

and lying on your bed.

Some fishermen

leave the banks of

their favorite spots,

to gig another.

They whip the lines,

casting there, back, forth,

to settle on the slower depths.

I see some taking strides

in waders, working to reel in

their prize.

Yet, I am loyal to this

sanded, rocky, pile

of experience.

It becomes rote.

Perhaps, it is hope.

Maybe, it is the comfort

of knowing what comes next,

and waiting for the inevitable.

You are no different

than the others.

You are simply

now.