I’ve written over a thousand poems.
I’ll probably write a few more.
Maybe I’ll stop tomorrow. Or maybe never.
I’ll write a letter to Death and ask her for more ink.
If she tells me to use my own.
Then I’ll write shorter poems.
But I’ll never stop.
Not until one of those poems hits its mark. And her heart weeps out of joy.
Not until it’s so beautiful that she cradles it like the starlight in her eyes.
Then and only then.
When she realizes just how much she means to me.
Will I ask her to do **** stuff.