what is love to loveless men?

-
    all the writers who loved me
    wrote about me so very lovingly
    mistaking my wit for intellect
    and my sorry state for perpetual melancholy

        and those who cared little
        about what I had to think
        satiated their curiosity 
        with visual feasting
        infatuating doll that can bend and moan

            and the ones who loved me sincerely
            died so very many moons ago.
            waning, waxing, crescent, gibbous,
            what do I know?

and now this vain pursuit
offering love that is to die soon
affection that may only last
this very disorienting autumn

what is love to loveless men?
mistaking fawning for intimacy
this peculiar bend 
enchanting their minds as to
insist that they're in love with me
this sweet, supple limerence

and am I so plain?
as to foster so little curiosity
when I thought I had had so much to think
and say, and feel,
have I been so disillusioned
as to expect some minute desire
for minds to explore
places steeper than the extent of my affection?

so all this vainness
may just as well be my own.
how to escape this god awful cycle?
or thwart the belief
I had so lovingly raised
that there was more in me 
to love than desire. 

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