Once Again To Love,

I'm sorry about my last letter.
Not that I didn't mean every word
I wrote, because I did, but today
it struck me
that you're not all bad.
It's just that you and your friend life
(or are you friends?
I guess you don't always go
hand in hand)
have got me by the balls,
(excuse my language)
and most of the time
I just don't quite know
what
to do about it.
Love, the truth is
you get me through just as many rough days
as you cause
(and you cause a lot of rough days).
But I just wanted to write to you,
as a sort of terms of agreement:
I cannot promise to refrain from writing
more furious poetry at you in the future,
as (let's be realistic, here, shall we?
Are you capable of realism, love?
Don't be angry,
I only jest.
Sort of.)
that will be inevitable
at one point or another.
I'm honestly
still pretty pissed at you
for winning, like they always say you do.
But, no matter,
there are more important matters at hand:
my sanity.
Please, whatever you do, spare it.
My mind is really all I have,
and I'd like it to remain
(for the most part, at least,)
intact.
That really is my only stipulation, love,
everything other than that
is fair game,
all is fair, love, in war.
And this is.
In return I submit myself
to this fucking mercurial shit
that I somehow cannot do without.
Love, I will take you on,
once again despite the odds,
despite what I know,
what may come
and what I may suffer.
Throw every curve ball you have,
bring it the fuck on.
So it is settled.
As a post script, I'd like to share
with you a Cuban philosophy,
my blazing middle finger to you
in acceptance of your challenge:
jodido pero contento,
fucked but happy.