don't love a writer
unless you can handle the truth
of the way they see your very existence
in the eyes of a poet,
a novelist,
a songwriter.
unless you, yourself, are willing to hear
the pencil moving to your name,
exposing secrets that only you two shared,
revealing hurt and laughter in rhythm and rhyme.
unless you know about the love letters
written to you but never sent
to express their yearning to hold your hand,
to kiss those lips,
to fall asleep next to you throughout the chilling night.
unless you know that your name isn't bob or joan,
or eric or melissa,
but that's how they wrote you in their novels,
marking the day you both met.

don't love a writer
unless you can handle the ache they feel
when they see you with someone else.
when they hear you laugh from afar,
but never with them.
when they allow themselves to be broken by you,
and you will never read their diaries written on napkins.
when they know you love another,
and yet still they want to hold you in their arms,
to kiss you,
to love you,
to write volumes about you.
when they promise themselves to stop writing
because the love poems have shadows of pain
and their novels go on, never ending.
when they break their hearts for you,
and let it bleed over paper and stitch it with words
to handle another day without you.

don't love a writer
until you've read their heart.