I like that you’re not crazy about me,

and that I’m not crazy about you,

that the heavy earth we stand upon

won’t float away beneath our shoes.

I like that I can be loose, and funny,

no need to twist words or deceive,

and never blush or choke with worry

at the slightest brush of your sleeve.

And I like that, right in front of me,

you’ll casually embrace a lover,

and not damn me to the fires of hell

if I were to kiss another.

And never, not by night or day,

would you cry my name in vain,

And we’ll never hear from a quiet church:

Alleluia’s sweet refrain.

I thank you with both heart and hand,

for you know not what you do:

For all the nights I’ve gone right to sleep,

For the rare sunset rendezvous,

For the moon that never lit our stroll,

For the sun that never cast us two,

For alas, you’re not crazy about me, and

Alas, I’m not crazy about you.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 3 May 1915