I can’t hold your attention anymore,
You always stop to read what the other book has to say,
Constantly jumping between conversations.
I am often forced to wonder
Which one do you hold the most
Dear!
I can’t make out 
What your mystery smile tries to say
And whose words bring you to life
From your slumber.
Was it me?
Or the other book I wonder,
That tells more telling stories
To hold you under their sway.
It would still be okay,
Were you pausing
To take a deep breath,
Only to stop your mind from blowing away,
To mull over the import of what I had portrayed,
But that’s not the case.
I am a book read so many times,
I have nothing more to say,
You have nothing new to learn,
And you always know what I’d say,
What I would mean through my poems.
Now I mince my words,
If I have something important to lay,
I am not too fond of pauses in our consultations.
For it means I am not holding you tight anymore,
And somehow that hurts even more,
Maybe I am not as interesting as before,
As you used to find our conversations.