I had to -- it was an assignment.
While I would no longer write something so presumptuously-titled, I'm pleasantly shocked at how coherent, thoughtful and honest I was. Also sad that something for which I had such passion now means so little; poetry has no significant place in my current life.
I wrote: "My poems are substitutes for letters I will never send."
In the mad throes of unrequited love, I had no one with whom I could share my longing. Poetry was an alternate universe in which I could wallow -- history re-imagined, re-written, re-kissed.
My poems let me insist "We danced to the Bee Gees, you walked me to the corner, you looked me in the eyes and said you wanted to buy me eggs."
I pretended to care about Pound, and Eliot, and Williams.
What I wanted? To never forget your lips.
