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.)

Your flaws are like stars to me
because I see them in your darkest moments,
I see them when the sun has set
and the night starts to whisper the truths
that you refuse to hear,
and I see them when the sky is clear
from thundering rain clouds.
But you hate the stars at night
and the only star that you learned to love is the sun,
as if its rays are going to love you
for the whole day,
when only it can meet you halfway.
Believe me when I say that,
like luminous bodies in space,
your flaws look beautiful to me.
And I don't want them to go away
because then the sky would be dark,
empty,
honestly boring,
and I wouldn't be able to write this love poem,
trying to appreciate the perfect manner
of your imperfections
by comparing them to something
that is literally out-worldly.

I love the stars
and I love you.