Bear with me, love. I’m learning.

I’ve been talking wedding plans

On a melting planet.

Your place or mine?

I’m not the first in my family to be mentally ill.

Love is love and

Love is logistics.

Is this how I write a love poem?

See, the thing is,

I don’t believe that I am real.

I’m a series of declarative,

Absurd statements,

And a well-chosen font.

Here, though,

The odd rebuttal:

You have a mustache

That hides a scar

(You am

Therefore I are.)

Is this what to be loved is?

That I see you

And I believe?