Little bedside poems: unrequited love

Unrequited love has long been romanticized in Literature, Film, and Art. Perhaps accidently, perhaps on purpose, but there it is! And some of us (wink wink) just can’t resist that book or film.

Why does there seem to be some kind of charm in longing for something, and then painting a picture of it? Are people just gluttons for punishment? Or is the making of Art just a way to assuage pain? 

I wrote this poem a long while ago on a messy scrap of paper with no intention of sharing it with anyone. There was nothing charming about it at the time, but as I read over it now, it seems to have gained a little charm with age.