Fifty one

‘‘Don’t look at me,’’ I cried.

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Because I might cry,’’ I breathed.

Nobody had ever done something so romantic and big to me, absolutely no one had ever done that

Its okay, that is what gets to happen to you every day when you are in love with a poet.

‘‘Can we sit?’’ he requested.

I looked at him and smiled as I weighed my options should I sit with him or not.

‘‘We will just sit, nothing else,’’ je affirmed.

‘‘But why would you want to sit with me, why?’’

It was only fair that I asked him the question again. No one ever minded me or looked my way, let alone request to sit with me or even write me nice poems, why would he do that for me.

‘‘Because I want to,’’ he answered.

‘‘That’s not enough, nobody ever sits with me or wants to have a conversation with me, at all. That’s why I am asking why you want to,’’ I inquired again.

I hatred being charity cases, I hated being the object of sympathy.

‘‘Because I want to, and because that’s reason enough, to me you are a pure, honest