"You Thought I Was That Type" - Anna Akhmatova

You thought I was that type:

That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.

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I found this in an anthology of poems I have, and I thought I'd share it here.  I like the sentiment.  It's a good "break-up" poem if you should happen to be in need of one.