No one will ever tell you
that poets are bad for you.
They will say crazy,
different,
genius,
tragic,
and any number of other flattering,
arguably true things

but they will never say
unhealthy.
(Unless your mother is a wise,
practical woman,
in which case you probably won't listen to her
anyway.)

Poets will expect you to understand things
that they will never teach you in any school,
things upon which no books have ever been written;
to see words
in colors and tastes and scents and
feelings from the warm, sepia-tone childhood memories
you may
or may not
have ever had.
They will be hurt and momentarily bitter
when you do not.

They will peruse emotions
as experienced collectors,
purchasing one
(or maybe two)
at a time,
wrapping it around themselves
just for the feel of it on their skin,
the subtle or flamboyant flavour
it lends to their dreams.

Poets will always ask more of you
than you think you are willing to give,
and you will want to leave;
you will swear to yourself that
"This is the last time..."
but then...

but then they will call your wrists "exquisite."
They will kiss the secret place between your shoulder blades
("Where our wings once were").
They will tell you
that they wish they had written you,
because you are the most eternal poem
they have ever read.

And you will believe them --
or rather,
you will believe in them,
because they see you
the way you would have wished yourself to be
had you been able to imagine such beautiful things.