I want to say I love you, were it not weird,
we barely know each other, your whole life’s ahead of you
whilst I sometimes don’t have strength to tie my shoes.
I wish it were obvious,
the beloved the lover loving,
catching you write my name in your book
instead of revising for the exam.

I want to sleep, would hope just die,
begone the idea you know the truth
(and pretend not to see my glance and sigh)
I want to write everything
no fear to exchange senhal with obvious,
for — alas — you are not stupid
(and if you were I would not be here)

I want to write decent prose but I cannot
for it is too soon to love, too late for reason.
I want to forgo my bohemian passion
(which in truth is just a schoolgirl’s whim)

I want I love you, were it not weird
and so instead I tell you this:
“because of you I write again”

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