The tragedy of a Love Poem

The tragedy of a love poem
Can speak in so many ways.
It can leave you feeling liberated
With a spark to hold onto.

Or
It can leave you with a bitter taste
-In your hands-
Staining your fingertips
With ink and nicotine.

I chose to let you go...

And I'm left pondering...

Is it because I'm too damaged to love?
My love can be a bit erratic...

Were my selfish needs fulfilled?
And you had just became
Quite dull to assuage my spirit?

Or...

Did I miss my poetry so much
That you became my muse...
In a vain attempt
To become the main character
In the tragedy of a love poem?