I write these poems imagining
That you are reading them
Which then makes me imagine
That you are seeing the heart of me
And that convinces me
That you are touched by it
And that therefore you will begin
To see me in a new light
With a bit more tenderness
With a bit more friendliness
And with a bit more kindness
Witness what a pack of cards I built
My attachment on top of your detachment
My longing on top of your indifference
My lament breeding on your heavenly shoulders
Leaping in my heart like a pair of fish
So, reader, you tell me then
Isn’t it clear that what’s now in me
Is not yet what’s now in her?
Isn’t it better to be me, longing longing and longing
Than to be her, heartless stubborn impossible and … HEARTLESS?
