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How can I question him?

This love he holds so true.

The affection he pours upon me—

The words;

The whispers;

The kisses.

I can only picture past women;

No faces—just names.

I remember his poems—

Words spilled upon a piece of paper.

I am not those women,

And they are not me.

I am not who broke him,

Or who betrays his heart;

Who breaks him down,

And tears him apart.

Words of another,

Rip at my confidence.

He chose me;

I belong to him.

He wants to marry me;

Longs for me—

Yet the questions churn within.

Love is ill thought of—

As I silently pray,—

“Please—

No more heartache.”