I just want someone to write with.
No.
On.

I want someone who will stay up all night long, nothing but our souls and pens on display for the moonlight to catch off the small of his back, while the ink spills across our skin and forms itself into the lyrics to a song that doesn’t quite know how it goes. Not yet. I want a symphony of rhyme and reason and metaphors and anaphoras and allusions and oxymorons, I want poetry. In the form of a man.

This is a story about you.