When you realized poetry was creepy,
You were punched in the face by a lie.
You realized what makes you love
Is that which makes you die.
The poem—for you—will be read by friends,
And some of them are beautiful,
With beauty that never ends,
With beauty that makes more beauty in a way
That makes you hate that summer day
When he gave you a poem about fall.
Though of course the poem he gave you could have been about anything at all.