She asked "if you were the poet and I were the words, would you write me out so delicately that you didn't miss the verbs?"
"Would you laugh at the lines between which you see?"

As if I had a wonder, I tried to muddle through the thoughts within me, I tried to answer these directly.
I wouldn't know how to start, most of my words fly right out quick cause they're ready to depart.
How do you answer questions that are not meant for you?
Do you try to be the poet and make those words come true?

If I were the poet and you were the words I would throw out all the questions, my answers would simply be absurd.
I would write what's on my mind, speak what's in my soul.
I would tear down the walls with words so true and pure, words that would make the heart stir.
I would take the words I've learned over the years and do what I could to help ease your fears.

If I were the poet and you were the words I would keep on writing and writing until I reached a point that at the least exciting.
I would edit out your errors but they're not what I call flaws.
I would craft the words so delicately, like the ones you speak so eloquently.
I would start you out with a sentence or two and give you time to simmer, then finally come back to you.
I would start you back over if that is what it took, I would feel the eraser motion of my table as it shook.

She asked, "if you were the poet and I were the words, would you leave me unfinished? Uncharted?"
If I were the poet and you were the words I would come back in time to finally finish what I started, to give you what you deserve.