In that instance, we both knew that no one would know us better.
Ever since that moment, the pen that lives
caged by rusty metal in my chest has yet to cease
scribbling the thousands of thoughts that you bring
to my seemingly insane conscious.
When hysteria knocks on my skull,
turning the soft thumps into deeper booms,
infinite ink oozes from the tip of my pen as my blood becomes
the words that I am endlessly sewing together for you.
As long as I am living, you will have poems.
Moving these words from blood to paper
Is not as simple of a task as moving from place to place…
Budging this boulder, giant and realistically an impossible feat,
with words and commas, suddenly becomes possible.
My dear, the poem has always been written.
