This poem is not about you.
I can feel you think that because you’re mentioned that it’s about you.
It’s not about your hair aflame in the afternoon sun
or how your fingers circle the concave of my chest.
This is a poem of nature.
Of roaring rivers threatening to tear me apart when I step into them;
it’s a metaphor, you see, but not for you.
The flowers bloomed early and I find peace with myself.
In the forest overgrown with mushroom and thick trees I sit down to write poetry.
And it’s not about you.