you met him and with his rhymes and verbose collection of words,
you fell head over heels and into his arms,
and his embrace was as tight as the grip he had on his pen.
he wrote of how you looked like the mother of his children and how you are everything he’s been wanting and more.

but sometimes, you found your mind wandering in a forest of questions you felt bad for even asking yourself.
you found yourself wondering if he had maybe not written the things he wrote for you, for his previous lover.
or even if you were the the first, you found yourself wondering if he would perhaps write the same thing for his next lover.

you accompanied him to his poetry recitals.
“P.S. I would still love you over and over again.” you heard him say in poem about his ex.
“but babe, it’s just a poem.” He managed to convince you.
but the voice in your head tried to convince you that a poem written with so much passion could never be JUST a poem.
but still, you managed to convince yourself otherwise.

he soon became too familiar and the grip he had on you like his pen started to loosen.
with that same pen he once used to tell you how you’re his heaven when he feels like hell
or you’re his sun when he’s in a dark place,
he now used it to take jabs straight to your heart to write about how he would love you over and over again  (wait…you’ve heard this one before)
but now is not the right time.

and even after you felt like he turned his pen into a knife, you still found yourself lingering on his tumblr page to see if he misses you.
you then stumbled upon a new poem he wrote to a girl.
“is it about me?” you asked yourself.
maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t.

after crying your last tear, and watching the last piece of your heart fall to the ground and shatter,
you removed his knife from your chest, made it your pen
and wrote a poem about why nobody should fall in love with a poet.