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I was hot because I was cold.
I loved you when my love was old.
I ran passionately to you
being indifferent, too.
I had you like one has a cigarette
Craving a pleasure I couldn’t have yet
and could never have.
Was this music or love?
You watched me pursuing
Something that wasn’t you.
When we were screwing
you must have wondered what I was doing
that someone could easily do
to someone else who wasn’t you,
like every word of this poem written out
perfectly. There was no doubt
romance was put into a play
and it could have been us, who can really say?
I had to have you, but this made you sad.
It never quite seemed you—who I had to have.
What could I do when you mounted a rebellion?
I picked a flower. Dined on an onion.
I still sing and play a guitar
as if I know the song you are.
You are many songs. I played each one
with care. What else should I have done?
I don’t know, but in my mind
you are there. If you were kind,
you would hold someone in your mind
and I would not demand that I be anything but a replica of you,
loving me and mistaken, too.
