Owen, I’ve considered what you said.
I’m flattered and I’m grateful. All the same
You’ve been in love about a million times
And there’s this other thing: that you are married.

I read your poetry, for heaven’s sake:
You fall in love like other people breathe,
Or just as often. Anyway, no thanks:
I somehow think your wife would not approve.

“But you’re fictitious,” was my weak reply,
“How can you turn me down? I wrote all this!”
She looked at me in beauty, then she said:

I’m sorry, Owen. It is what it is.

You go your way, now, and I will go mine.
I’ll be a Dreamstime Model, and you’ll be
Posting more poetry than’s really wise,
Goodbye now, Owen. Don’t look back. Goodbye.

And with rejection ringing in my ears
I sadly turn away, and start to write…