Since I am thinking today about the foolishness of spending our lives chasing success and what looks good to other people, I remembered this little poem, written about how we over analyze something as simple as new love and new attraction. We tend to complicate everything, in the mistaken notion that something must be difficult to be valuable. The opposite is true. Most real joy in life is as simple as allowing life to happen naturally. Love will always find a way.
Sometimes I think that if I write
a poem
in the first person,
the truth I must tell
I am alone when I write,
except when I write for you.
The singularity of my aloneness
seems more acceptable
when I write to you.
I think that poems wouldn’t exist
without beautiful women to write them for.
I remember the first time that I saw you,
in person,
first person,
singular,
smiling a perfect smile
and catching my heart in your eyes.
I was uncomfortable
being alone,
and you comforted me.
I was stupidly
clumsy,
and you helped me.
Did you know
that I loved you
from that moment?
Maybe first person truth
won’t kill me after all. 
