on why i will never date a poet

you are arrogant

fond of grand gestures, in love with words

if not more than yourself

you deem the world as a concept

to explore, disassemble
only to arrange according to your own

you detect the awkwardness

in my first stanza’s last line, and would like

to edit my punctuations when I couldn’t care less

on commas and periods you are restless

you are my kind

and I know too well that we live to find

what will never be found

you compare me to a dagger

without knowing what wounds me

you are impossible, you will die

attempting to hear the meter

of an unsound line, disparage

my lapses in syntax. you make love

with abstractions, and like in poetry,

you bend truths

to satisfy discontent, you are unendingly

searching for a misplaced

word

you are a persona.