Before you wrote a thing,
you read someone else
and you loved someone else.
You read what they wrote,
and you loved them.
And you loved them so
that you wrote. And you
wrote and wrote and wrote.
And eventually, you loved
yourself, too, you loved
yourself more than anyone
else. But that’s not the point:
the point is, you loved someone
else first. You were many things,
But you weren’t your first love.
I wanted to write something beautiful, because it was late
and I was alone and Oscar Wilde.
I thought of the madness of kissing, places that were hot
and colored, red and yellow wine letters, the wings
that shadow me. And then I found London–“a desert
without your dainty feet” and I thought:
perfect, delicious, obscure, and cosmopolitan! But
who wants that? I do, but only if it brings me you:
alone, absolute, illiterate with words
“Always, devotedly, yours…”