Poets are Cursed Lovers

Poets are cursed lovers

Never trust a poet

you won't even know when they're about to knock you off your feet,

because they'll say the right thing at the right time

they will press their hands into your sternum, deep enough to feel it

without caressing you and/or letting you feel the touch hot enough to melt you;

but their mouth will grab your tongue and make you feel their love for you.

the absence of love they've endured throughout their existence.

I remember every morning when you left for work and I had the day off, 

I used to slip under your bed to get your diary and go through the entries 

to have a better understanding of you and see the aspects of yourself that you keep hidden from me.

I think about that day we wandered through the park; 

we were sitting beneath a magnificent tree five yards from my house.

You were holding my hand tight while whispering in my ear, 

asking me how long had I been reading you as the sunlight formed an enchanting shadow on your face.

I was surprised 

I didn't realize you'd catch me staring at you and you suddenly flipped through the pages

it was the 36th page when you ripped off a strand of my hair.

it was as rough as your palm after a hard day's work and it was as black as my soul

Ever since you started reading a page of your diary to put me to sleep every night.

Listening to your voice, the weight of your words, and the guilt they bore

wrecked a wound in my chest and caused me to bleed, and believe me

I didn't sleep any of those nights.

when you noticed I was reading your diary, I had finished it twice before you told me.

when I used to ask you for the recipe of your poetries,

all you ever responded with was a smug smirk,

while you used to ask for the ingredients I used to make your favourite cookies.

you believed that you were doomed to live with the suffering that

you never deserved to share with anyone, perhaps this is a trait shared by all poets.

you always made me feel loved while treading on verbal battlegrounds,

but I was never sure whether you ever trusted me.

When I spotted you taking sleeping pills one night,

I tried to get through your barriers and talk to you,

but you instead chose to have a cup of coffee.

we had a silent argument while we were just a room apart,

and I knew we were through before you stopped mailing me letters.

not waking up with a to-do list on my nightstand; they had your scent,

the pen you used to write with, the ink, and a piece of you.

you exposed your soul to me, but I couldn't see through it.

I pondered how severely someone could be harmed before turning to his melancholy,

until one day I returned home from my night shift to find you on the floor, lifeless,

holding the empty container that had once held the pen (pain).

ever since I've sent you these letters that will never be mailed,

I called the ambulance, and the paramedics informed me that you (us) were no longer alive.

Never fall in love with a poet because, after they depart,

you'll be left wandering aimlessly in quest of a home you disbelieve ever existed.