Poem by Charles Bukowski

Did you love her, or not?”
He took a deep breath.
“How should I answer you? She was insane.”
He ran his hand through his hair.
“God only knows how insane she was. Every day, she was a different woman.
Sometimes she was the one who took the lead, other times she would drag along.
Sometimes she gave herself completely, other times she was shy.
Insecure and determined.
Sweet and arrogant.
She was a thousand women, but her perfume was always the same, unmistakable.
She was my only certainty.
She would smile at me, and she knew that with that smile she had me.
When she smiled at me, I couldn’t understand anything anymore.
I didn’t know how to speak or think anymore—
nothing, zero.
Suddenly, there was only her.
She was mad, completely mad.
Sometimes she cried.
They say that at those moments, women just want a hug.
Not her.
She would get angry.
I don’t know where she is now, but I bet she’s still chasing dreams.
She was crazy, completely crazy.
But I loved her
like a madman.”