May I imagine Neruda lost Matilda before finding her again, and much before writing how he loved her fiercely enough to cloak his bloody nectar with banal papers?
My friend went to a poetry reading. the scene of heartbreak and lost love dripped doubt all over her love life until I reassured her that all poetry oozes with a similar crap, and it is the crap that keeps a poet going in a world that takes the metaphor out of the artist out of the child. But, poets aren't special.. I'll tell you what is. The notes you leave on the fridge, ink that fades into aggressive inkless carvings, and you're weak suspended hand
walking into an evening kitchen and sighing beside the rosy pool of sweet milk left on the tiles
the miniature collections of paper scraps,wrappers, and lint lying around the places your lover empties their most intimate pockets. This is the crap poets and losers describe to themselves on repeat under their breathe. This is how she masturbates, the woman who loves words.
