Some poets
   write poetry--
others
   create it.
  
But you
   breathe love
into poetry.

I was sure I didn't love you--
I was sure I never could,
'cause you're not the kind of woman
that I thought I ever would.

So when you called me "sweetie"
as you left for Rome that day,
I wanted to say, "I'm not,
don't talk to me that way."

"I'm nothing more than just a friend,
that's all I want to be.
Of course I care about you, but
not in the way you mean."

"So don't go getting ideas
in your little weasel head.
I never want to spend the night
in your little weasel bed."

I thought that with you gone away
I'd think of you not at all,
so I was quite surprised one day
when I wondered if you'd call.

And when I started checking the mail
for a post card sent from you,
I really started wondering
what the hell I was going through.

I found that I was missing you
more than I cared to admit,
I found that I was wanting you, too,
more than a little bit.

Tonight you let your black hair down,
push finally came to shove,
and the weasel girl I once disdained
became the woman I love.

Love is never,
    in the end,
as it first appeared.