all my exes
think the same thing
when asked about me

he was a dreamer
was slick to talk to
in the beginning
could sell water to a fish
talk your panties off
with promises of forever

but i preferred
his head between my legs
that was his gift

rather
than to hear him talk of writing

and when he got sad
it could take weeks
to snap him out of his funk
but he was no goddamned poet
just a hack

but when his head
was buried between my legs
then he was
walt fucking whitman or ee cummings

but no
we never loved him
you don’t love a man
not one like him

you just stay
for the sex
to see what he writes
about you
the second he starts writing
about another

it had been over for weeks