Words, Underplayed

While my attention was elsewhere, you sank.
It wasn't quicksand on the jungle floor,
And not the ocean, either. Metaphor
Is king with poets, and this kind of crank
Will build on that until, to be quite frank,
The thing falls down or somehow learns to soar.
You left me, and the rain began to pour –
More's coming; you can take that to the bank.

You sank without a trace, and I was blind
To any signal that you might have made,
Since I was dreaming of a sylvan glade
And bold, delightful naiads I would find.
But all I needed – does it seem unkind? –
Is what I'm doing now: words, underplayed.