Perhaps your love's a folly in my head.
Some words you meant in kindness, or a glance
you meant for someone else. This whole romance
scraps of emotion misinterpreted.
And my determination to be chaste
and walk away from offers never made
mere lust with self-importance overlaid,
no grand emotion. Shabby tawdry waste.
But still transfigured by a word or phrase
that you inspired. None of us ever choose
which random person will become a Muse.
Each poet knows that all the words she says
are lies, since every girl we hope to screw
will get a sonnet, or if lucky, two.