as poets,
we carved our hearts
out of pencil and
ink,

every drop of feeling
was a metaphor,

every echo of "I love you"
had been written
before,

how on Earth could we
ever learn how to exist
in reality?

for our passions
to become more
than a dance
on a page,

to feel and not knee-
**** into action
over our laptops
at 4am...

but I loved you,
and not for my page
or pen or protagonist,

but for your pencil -
sketched heart

that I dreamt of
filling in red