I told them that I wouldn’t fall in love with a writer. I told myself to avoid them like a plague. They’ve brought me nothing but heartache. Words they said would last forever; in reality they simply faded away as time passed. The poems I would reread every so often. The pain never did disappear until I had moved on to someone else. Sometimes I remembered their names. One started a B and ended with a Y. He visited for a few days, I loved him quickly and fiercely. His
inspiration was the strongest and hardest.
Yet I find myself sinking into his writing as if he crafted each one for me. Stringing together a necklace only I can wear. Each one an intimate look into his life. He’d explain the inspiration, some of heartbreak, anger, and regret. Nonetheless I enjoyed listening to him recite them. They only became about me later on, he’d kiss me and remind me that I’m beautiful. Nights were for resetting. Kisses were meant to trail down my back. My soul needed protection for my innocence was too sweet. I saved some.
I told myself I wouldn’t fall for a writer and here I am. Some habits never die.
I told them I wasn’t a writer so every poem I wrote had the opportunity to sound corny. I gave them the chance to tell me where I could do better as I made them apart of my history. I latched on. I let them know that this was for them and I didn’t want anyone to know. “I want to be the one that got away.” They’d remember me words, burning in their memories.
Words I said meant everything until they lost their meaning from repetition, practicing so it was perfect for boys who later disappeared. Only protecting themselves from the harsh realities of a girl who loved them and leave.
He reminded me he wasn’t a writer, so I took comfort in the fact and fell in love. I laid on his chest and wrote out notes for him to enjoy when he woke up. Reminders that my love wouldn’t fade away, as his eyes scanned over the words, he’ll slowly became another chapter. Your body is beautiful, so let me kiss it. I love you so corny but I don’t have other words. I’m fragile because you told me so. He’ll wake up one day, only with a few poems to hold him.
I told them I wouldn’t fall in love with a writer but I never told them not to fall in love with me.