She turns and smiles;
“You know, if he writes her a sonnet,
He loves her.
If he writes her 300 sonnets,
He loves sonnets.”
He seems to love writing and
I would give anything
To be the ink he writes in
But I guess he’s a good poet
And a hurtful lover.
“He loves to write,
I do not think
He loves to love.”
I smile. My eyes get stuck in distance.
She’s not right, but
She’s not wrong.