You read me poems about birds
mountains views
all the beauties
and even women
you once knew.
Rooms you rented
clothes you removed
in a hurry or slowly.
I cry stop
write a poem for me,
that doesn’t morph into doubt
or end in regret.
Spare me the details
of her
and her yeses and nos
wrapping arms and legs
skin, eyes, kisses
lest I fall in love too,
with every woman you ever knew.
They aren’t too many
or too few
I would send them all
a box of chocolate.