When a poet falls in love with you, you are immortal, for you have become of part of her, and so, a part of her work.
When she falls out of love, you are made to be better, for a memory of what was once great is stronger than a current, flighty feeling.
When a poet writes prose,
When she abandons conciseness in favor for essays filled with anger at you and herself and the world,
That is the day that you die.
For the day that a poet writes prose,
She, and she alone, exists.
For the day that a poet writes prose,
She will guarantee that you will not.