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“Tell me a poem,” you demand, late at night,
And leave me tongue-tied.
“I write poems,” I protest weakly,
“I don’t tell them.”
“Performance pressure?” you tease me;
I blush at the implied intimacy.

“I know you don’t love me, not yet,”
I admit, and add, “but you will.”
“And what makes you so sure,”
You mock me, “my arrogant frog?”
“I haven’t written a poem for you yet,”
I answer, “wait till I write one.”


Copy-pasted directly from Gauravonomics without his permission.

Posted in: on Saturday, February 17, 2007 at at 7:48 PM