to write this poem for someone

it is full of things that you like and it is a pleasure to write and to read it to someone and the person you have written about betrays you and it was a slow betrayal, as if receiving many letters and not throwing any out until there is this box you look around in the morning which is white and to think that the betrayal has been happening and in the whiteness of the morning is done, it is obvious and calm, because it is stacked, the things that you think this person are blown through and your thoughts are open and empty like that and there is no