You tell me that I’m beautiful
and leave me waiting
To prove the notion right or wrong,
to succeed or fail
with no subsequent knowledge of my accomplishments

You tell me that I’m beautiful
then serenade me with silence
and leave me to question your motives
your meaning and intent
and to wonder if it wasn’t all imagined

You tell me that I’m beautiful
but the roses on my doorstep must have vanished in the night
Because I’ve no token, physical or otherwise, of your affections
save for your empty repetition

You tell me that I’m beautiful
and that is all you say
in various forms
equal in rhyme and rhythm, prose and verse
left to linger in the air with neither introduction nor closure

You tell me that I’m beautiful
and perhaps I take it for granted
or exaggerate, or miss your point entirely, because
Three small words may hold quite some bearing
when arranged accordingly,
But:

You tell me that I’m beautiful
then retrace your footsteps out of this dark room
and casually close the door
You do not lead me gently by the hand
or call for me to follow
You leave me there alone.