brevity is the soul of desperation

I slaved over this poem for days, spent every effort trying to make it absolutely perfect. She is unhappy with me, feels I don't care. She said she's going to leave me. I told her I'd write her a poem, and I swore it would be the best I'd ever done. She said fine.

I couldn't count the poems I've written in the past, poems of longing and desperate pleas. None of them are good enough for her. She deserves the very best, the very most that I can offer her. There is no question of failing. I think she understands, in a sense. She has left me alone, hasn't bothered me about it. Some might think she's given up, that she's already gone, that I should save myself the effort. Some would no doubt give up, but not me; I'm a poet, a hopeless idealist. I don't know when to quit.

It took days, but I finally finished it. I only hope it's good enough:

don't leave.