They say women are crazy, and that’s why heartbreaks occur:
She’s not leaving you—she’s leaving you leaving her.
I loved her when I could, and this is when she left;
My heart was full—shocked to find hers bereft.
I loved her in the crescent or the full moon,
Knowing love wasn’t always, but at least it was soon.
If she wasn’t mine today, or even tomorrow,
Next week, surely, there wouldn’t be any sorrow.
But something—something—must have grown in her mind:
My satisfaction meant I was unkind.
If I could love her Wednesday, smile, and be glad
On Friday, wasn’t Thursday at least a little sad?
Was Thursday a day of smiling, too, she died
That Thursday I wrote poems—while she cried.
She wanted me—and hated it—all the time;
I kissed her Sunday; then Monday, Tuesday wrote rhyme,
Suffering not, for she was not—yet she was always mine;
She didn’t like it that she and my poems belonged to me this way.
She left, and now we suffer every night and every day.