“Write me a poem?” he asked me.

“Of course, my love.” And I do.

My love is written onto a page
The words spilling onto the floor
Trickling through the cracks in the wood
Dripping onto the dry earth below
Watering long forgotten seeds
Sprouting tendrils of flowering vines
Giving pollen to the smallest of bees.
From their hives of great abundance,
Honey leaking, sticky and golden,
I collect in a jar made of crystals
And present to him, my poem.
“I give you my very being.” I say.
With a laugh, he takes it.
-
“Write me a poem?” I ask him.
“That’s not really my thing, sorry.”