Your bio says you love me
but I don’t think you do.
Not how it counts.
Not like I love you.
And I do love you
though the way I do
is constrained, defined
like the way you may love, too.

Your love is discriminating.
You care for me, perhaps,
but not as an individual,
not as a semi-virile man.
Your love is a theoretical love
a kind love
a love you can share with fans,
friends and fellow artists.
It is not something
that sets the object of love
apart from anyone else in existence.

Don’t get me wrong:
I appreciate anything I can get from you
or your bio
and will devour whatever love you provide.
But I suspect
when you see how completely
I consume your compassion,
you will be more tentative
with what you’re willing to offer next.