Homophone Love

Each night I told you, “Dinner is served sharply at eight.” But it was my heart on which you dined, that you ate. I was never first, was never your number one, just another bedpost notch, a trophy you won. In your eyes there was no depth, nothing to see, no crashing waves of passion for me to drown in at sea. Still loving your fire, the crackle and flame burning me sore, whilst cradling the match in which sparks of your love I'm sure that I saw. Because one is too few for you who needs lovers two that make three, perhaps four; the only way you get to a hallucination of love. You who gets bored of things new… when deep down inside, I’m right – this, you always knew.