I told myself that
I was done writing love poems,
that I have had enough
of this lovestruck sickness.

but I washed her hair this morning

I told myself that
it was all over,
that there was no more love
left to give.

but I massaged her scalp with my fingertips

I told myself that
I wasn't enough
that she didn't--couldn't
want me anymore.

but I worked up a lather between the strands of her hair

I told myself that
I could never make this work again,
that I was meant
to be alone.

but she moaned in that delighted way she does

I told myself that
the glow coming off of her
belonged to someone else.

but she purred my name

but she turned to look at me

and gave me a soapy kiss.