dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

you never see a ghost
except inside your fear
what you see at most
is an apparition unclear.

flickering lantern lights
casting shadows on the wall
were your childhood frights
in the half lit nightly lull.

you couldn't tell them lies
tales that grandma spun
glowworms were ghosts' eyes
that closed with morning sun.

they made a place in your head
broke all your resolves weak
eerie patterns moonlight made
wind's howls in bamboo's creak.

when the nights came
clock ticks gave a scare
you had to believe in them
you knew they were there.

are they now all dead
fantasy of child's mind
monsters below bed
footsteps heard behind?

some fears you still own
strangely hold them firm
and when you are alone
seek grandma's safety arm!

You asked me once,
if I'd written about you.
I'd smiled as I shook my head.
With every word I write, a part of you settles on the page, amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.
Leaving smudges across the page.

I used to believe the reason I picked up a pen, sprawling ink along a once pristine page was to rid myself of you.
Word by word, drawing you out to settle amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.
I reflect on a night, spent with a lover.
My hands refused to settle,
agitated by the urge to write.
Long, shaking lines made up the letters trailing around my bare legs.
A whispered voice calls me to return, the urge is gone.
Perhaps the writing isn't for the abandonment of you. Perhaps it is the last of you - all I have now.
Muddled amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.