Anne Sexton's poem "For My Lover, Returning to His Wife," ends with the line: "As for me, I am watercolor. I wash off." She's just addressed the letting go of love and the acceptance that she's been but a passing fancy, a mirage in a passionless period of life, "littleneck clams out of season," "a bright red stoop in the harbor." So she "gives him back his heart," giving him permission to return to that which makes him whole, not that which simply excites him. It's a saddening poem, but when it comes to love, sex, relationships, or simply trying to connect with other human beings, it's all very tricky territory.
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