Who can write a poem
for each of your hairs,
as I can?
Sing a new song
each time you smile,
as I do?

What man wishes for you,
and only you,
each time a star falls?
Who can love you
to the point of suffering,
joyously,
exuberantly,
as I surely do?

I hope that there are many such men,
but I beg you
to just ignore them,
because they
are not me.