they sat at the second table from the left.
four girls; one with curly hair to her knees, one with a heart for running, and two who love basketball.
I tried to fit in.
I failed.
a poet is not a dancer.
a poet is not a runner.
a poet is not a basketball player.
a poet is a poet.
I hated this table.
it gave me chills.
I walk past the table, because they cannot hurt what isn't in their reach.

I gave you my heart
and when you left, you gave it back.
(carefully; you tried not to break it.)
you did it so that I could give it
to someone else but my god, I wish
you'd kept it. (it remembers you
like worn-out furniture, it remembers
your shape, and no one else could fit
that way.)

I have seen sunsets
lovelier than you,
and you are not as
powerful as the ocean;
and cheesecake tastes sweeter
than your lips,
your hair does not quite
outshine the sun,
and a light breeze in May
is gentler
than your gentle hands.
I love the sound of your voice,
but there are symphonies
lovelier,
and the words of Neruda
are more well-versed
than any that you've spoken;
and yet,
your inadequacy leaves me
enchanted
like nothing in this world,
and I wouldn't live
or die
for sunsets and rhymes
but I'd live and die for you;
there is nothing
in this world
that I'd compare you to, and
some things are more beautiful,
but they don't mean as much.

you talked to me in sonnets
or metaphysical poetry --
you said it all, in little words.
I was never any good at it,
unable to describe you in
only 14 lines, unable to
describe you even in novels.
writing about love is like
translating Shakespeare --
the subtleties are always
lost -- and in my many
inadequate attempts to
put you on paper, I've
never managed to make
you understand what
happens to my heart
each time you smile.