Do not fall in love with a writer.
They make a work of art out of words so elegantly you get lost to the point of no return. They create spells and lay them on white-painted sheets of paper, chanting letters attached carefully your eyes become so dizzy with amusement. They weave strings upon strings of enticing poetry you poison yourself the moment you find yourself drinking to the last drop.
Do not fall in love with a writer.
They appear almost like angels, serene and calm, yet at the same time a guise of what you would deem as a form of destruction planned out in detail you do not notice a thing about the pain they will cause you. They will carve in your veins the essence of a prose about loving you (oh, the irony of it), and make sure you bleed the same words they first bit you with.
Do not fall in love with me.*
I will not think twice about writing the life I had when I'm with you. The crisp touch of your fingers with mine—the chapped nails and all that. The sweet singsong of your laugh echoing throughout the streets as we walked at half past five, anticipating the ray of the sun shining through to welcome another day. The scent of your breath as your lips danced slowly with mine. I will write all of these down, and you can never stop me. I will write and write and write about you, even if I run out of words to use, even if I grow tired of the sound of pen brushing paper or of fingers clacking keys; I will still continue to write about you.
I still have and perhaps I always will, even if now, you decided to leave me.