My mind is too simple to decipher why but
this love for you is of a strange nature;
whensoever I have to endure your soft touch
tetrodotoxin immobilizes my body,
chlorine blazes through my lungs,
and the Nipah virus dashes me into a coma.
Whensoever I descry your figure
I remember no Shakespearean sonnet
nor hear Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony
yet I feel I’m going to end like Young Werther.
And I ask myself:
what romanticist am I by dedicating you this poem
full of pain and death?
The first and last one. The one who figured it out.
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