If you send someone a love poem
They will think it’s about them
And chances are that it is
For example
Neruda says that white clouds
Wave like handkerchiefs in the wind
The early fall sun angles light
That makes you feel sick to your stomach
With desire and loss
In the way Neruda says somewhere else
Makes you want to spread ashes across your chest
You hear a woman sing on the radio
About not “being a problem you can solve”
And you misunderstand her because
You think she means that we are
What we are and not what we’re not
But she means she is too complicated
Maybe we are
Who can understand anyone anyway
But the taste of someone’s mouth
And the texture of their hair
And the smell they leave behind
Is not a problem
At least not at first
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