she wrote about love,
as if she'd experienced it.
in truth, all she knew
about love came from
Neruda and Yeats and
Nicolas Sparks. the
only love in her life
was the unrequited
kind, but she wrote
about the loves that
lasted, or faded, or
blossomed, as if she'd
ever seen it happen,
and wondered if any
of the poets she so
admired had written
about fiction, or if
they wrote love as
they felt it -- but then,
who, happily in love,
has time for sonnets?
who writes, unless
for the vain belief
that words can fill
a void?