lover of the famous.

and so you were there with the famous,
you slept with the famous
and you wrote about the famous.
but what you found out is that the only thing that the famous are worried about,
is their fame.
and not the young beauty lying in bed next to them.
your letters that you wrote me slowly became sadder
and sadder
and less frequent,
the more that your lovers betrayed you.
your last letter told me of a 'crying bench'
in the middle of a bridge, over the Lea at Bow Creek.
you wrote of how you sat on this bench every night,
crying passionately, for the lovers who had long forgotten you.
if only you would have cried,
for the love that could have been ours.