This one... This one tells me he loves me and actually means it. He embraces my dark mind in all its fullness. He kisses my flaws and makes love to my dark shadows.
I keep waiting for him to break my heart, So that deep, sad sonnets could seep through the crevices. I keep waiting for that heart wrenching blow that'll set my soul screaming out, triggering past demons to arise and causing my hands to write sad reflections of the pain.
I've only ever written about Ghost hearts and Lost loves. But how do I do that anymore? How do I write about pain and suffering when all I feel is love and immense joy?
He stole the very essence of my poetry. How dare he. But I love him still. And maybe, just maybe poetry doesn't always have to be dark. But that's a story for another day.