Dear Pablo,
I see your poem, and raise you another.
For see, I too can write the saddest lines tonight.
They will not have your beauty, but they will have your phrase.
Or, a reverse of it.
For while your love has departed, I still stay.
You see, the truth is this:
He loves me, and sometimes I love him too.
He loves me desperately
In the way that a sailor clings to an unyielding buoy.
He loves me constantly
In the way of the sun in a drought.
He loves me
And sometimes I love him too.

Pablo, if your love loved you not
Why would you desire her still?
You say you love her no longer, but maybe you love her.
Why do you do this?
Why do you not realize there is surely someone else
Who will love you, too?
Why are you unwilling to see
That if she loves you not
She is not worthy?