she had the sky in her eyes
the grass in her hair
and blood on her wrists

you said
it doesn't matter anyway
it never did

you said
it didn't matter
if it was a week, a month, or a year
we wouldn't be forever anyway

you once said
you loved me
on a cold and dark night like this

you said  
it didn't matter

but baby
it matters *to me

do not fall in love with a poet
unless you can accept flickering candles at obscene hours
and ink stains that cover their fingers and clothes
and constant eye bags that they may need you to kiss

do not fall in love with a poet
unless you handle them dropping all and suddenly
composing
and then shutting you out in frustration of imperfection
sometimes words just do not do the things that they want

do not fall in love with a poet
if you do not appreciate paragraphs about your eyes
or if you do not have very beautiful prose
your simplicity will scare; they will simply hide their heart

do not fall in love with a poet
and solely be swept away by their mesmerizing verses
they will take you and transfix you in the dead of the night
leaving you breathless
but they'll be gone by morning

*k.c.

that feeling throughout your body
after soaking in a hot bath
where you're warm from the inside out
and your legs feel like they'd
collapse under any wrong movement

that's how it feels to be
in love with
the memory of you