They will write entire novels based solely on your eyes, create depths of intangible intimacy that can only result in displacement.
You will come to know of death before death.
They will dip their fingers in your blood and paint diagrams of love across your chest. You will transform into artwork, a selfish inspiration.
On nights that end in benevolence, they will be too frightened to speak; and you will never understand.
You will learn how to break, but more like waves and less like porcelain.
They can feel agony far beyond your compression. Your silence will be substance for extinction, *and a poet never forgets.
