Captivated Has Its Root in Capture

You write me love poems
cut out of magazines,
the unmatched letters skittering
across the page—
you tell me it’s romantic
and spontaneous and poetic
but all I can think of is ransom notes,
and the time we were in the museum five hours
because you wanted me to understand
Mondrian in the soul,
in the bones, like it was blood and breath
and I just liked the colors.

I have a headache and you will insist
that love can cure all ills,
but I’m fairly sure I’d rather rely on aspirin.