Have you ever fallen in love with a poet?

"Have you ever fallen in love with a poet?" I look straight into his eyes. "No." I replied. He smiles, "well, you shouldn't." He hands me down a folded paper. Beautiful cursive handwriting, royal blue ink, and a poem. I smiled back. I didn't read it. I couldn't. He looks at me, touches my fingers; "what happens when two poets fall in love?" His eyes dazzled, doubtful yet hopeful. "They leave." I replied. You leave the people you love, not for them. But for oneself. Love was never meant for loving, but for leaving. I gave him back a folded paper and left.

//
Have you ever fallen in love with a poet?
There lies a poem in these fingers,
For you, of you.
When the sky turns black, and the world stays still,
I wrote it then
How do I tell you,
Loss is poetry and not love,
I loved you enough to leave now,
Before I turn into your poem, your love, your loss,
Let me complete first,
But the more I try
Words fail me
I know this shall stay incomplete, forever.
You stole my words, and my heart
Let this remain,
For when I look back
I would know,
You were the words I had hidden,
You were the poetry I feared.
For you were my muse once,
But a poet, always.
Have you ever fallen in love with a poet?
//

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