there was a book of poetry once

written only for me

by my soul mate

and he said look into my soul

for ten minutes

absorb every word as a kiss

every sentence as a thrust.

my heart ached so much

i threw up,

my tears ate up my pain

and I thought he conjured

up Keats and the romantics

like he always does

and gave me their memory

as a gift,

circa 1890.

Chapters progressed like

Pablo and Mathilda

my love erupted

and soaked my soul

with bliss. Lost continents

were found

upon our love.

years meant nothing

i may have never seen him

(almost once)

fate denied it,

he didn’t know about me

when he thought he did.

so i wrote a book

while he searched,

we missed each other by hours.

but his poetry

killed me

it struck my heart

and ripped it into

vines in a forest.

his love

and my name

on his lips

is tragic.

yet the most

beautiful world

we never discovered.

21 thoughts on “his book of poetry

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