I sometimes
Wish my favourite writer
Would call me
To read his book
During this lockdown
It wasn't until puberty ended
That I realised
Writers don't even read their books
They just bang the muses
And write for sheer amusement
Writers wear a silk scarf
To cover the hickeys on their neck
Not to keep the winter out
Or the heat in their starched shirts
Writers wear boxer shorts to bed
And come out naked with their hands full
Literally, one with a bottle
Metaphorically, one with a woman
I would love it
If you read my book
Because life doesn't summarize
Heartbreak in 265 pages