On the loveseat, writing love letters to myself-
glancing at my reflection for inspiration.
Only I am able to woo myself the way
I want to be wooed, correction: the way I de-
serve to be wooed.* The way to my heart has nothing
to do with my stomach or genitals; I have
no favorite floral arrangement either. Stop.
The way to my heart is found on a perfectly-
aged piece of pavement, and you must move like a wave
if you wish to get there. The water rarely lies.