Cannot fall in love with the poet.
But I am already in love with the poet.

For only the poet knows how to please me
with the rhythm
of words
the sensation
of rhymes
the aesthetics
of images
the purpose
of diction

on the same page
our words are intertwined
  our rhymes are smooth
   our images are blurry
    our diction is precise  

and we end it all with an exclamation
of one last cry.

His eyes are gentle like his poetry
sometimes they are difficult to look.
I am not always the woman he thinks I could be,
wrapped in the sheer sheet of romance,
relishing every love letter - an endless rainfall,
grasping for breath at everything splendid,
and at the end of our poem, always
yearning for more.

I am already in love with the poet, but I
have to go. And for one last time,
in our world of perfection,
together we write.