Requital

I always could write sonnets to complain
When you weren't here; it always worked, before.
I'd write, and for a moment it would drain
The problems that I had. Of course, some more
Were always in the shadows, lurking there,
But for an instant they were not yet come,
And so the pain was gone, and life was clear;
The sonnets made it bearable, me numb.
But now the poems do not do their job;
I write them, but the pain remains the same.
There's something in my soul that seems to rob
Their former potency, and I must blame
Your love for that; for when it was just me
My sonnets felt no insufficiency.