she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?

this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)

You painted this beautiful mirage of me
Flawless, just the way you saw me
I danced in the shadows of the image you created
Until you asked something you never thought of asking
My answer was like many dark lines of charcoal,
Forever ruining your priceless art

It was done to spite you
To prove my carelessness, my independence.
Do I need someone? I might, but I don’t need you!
Out of hostility, I spat in your face.
Out of fear, all the doors and windows have been barred
And I no longer have the strength to free myself

Your question was the court room-
My answer the death sentence/penalty
And that painting you guarded with such pride
Forever displaying all that perfection,
I stole it away and destroyed it with a small collection
Of simple words