(There are two characters in this particular story: Him and You.)
He never thought of me as a poet, though I have written more poetry about Him than anyone else before. I wrote a poem about him, spent hours on it, hummed it on a stage, I got so close to the mic for comfort I felt I was supporting myself on His secondhand drunken breath. I once read it out loud to him, and it got lost in His head, and I am unsure if He was ever aware of poetry He dismissed.
But You. You considered me a poet almost from the start, I could see it in the way Your eyes were trying to tell Your mouth the words it needed to adore me, but Your mouth fell blank, and so chose into kissing instead. At least, that's how it went in my head. You were upset with me at how little poetry I had written about You, and even to this day, though we are apart for three years, You still read my words.
Why? Why do you still read? Is it to make up for the words You skipped over in my eyes when You were close enough to read my irises?