Poets Are A Weird Mob:

I get up before the sun, And before the household, So I can write poems for you, It comes out of my fingers. In reams. One day when I finally meet you, I will give them to you and, Unless you are a poet, You may not understand, The significance. You’ll hand them back, And more

“Did you miss me?” she asked …

“I guess so,” I answered, without making eye contact, as nonchalantly as I could. “I did it to punish you,” she said casually. “I know,” I answered, flicking through the mail. “But every time I saw salt I would think of you and start to cry,” “Oh really?” She knows how much I love salt. more