Poetry and Hearts

I honestly don't even know where this came from. It has nothing to do with anything really. but its here.

When a poet falls in love with your smile,
he will fill notebooks line after line,
of your simple perfections,
until the pages began to lose themselves
as Autumn flips through them,
never caring how the words fly from the page,
fleeing from the fire of every tomorrow’s dreams.

You fell in love with a poet,once.
It was beautiful until he ran out of words to describe
the shine in your eyes,
the uniqueness, the beauty in your appearance,
the sad slump in your shoulders
whenever you went too long without music.
it was beautiful until you were no longer his muse,
left with sallow skin and sunken cheeks,
tattered clothes,shredded soul.
It was beautiful until you could see the faraway look
in his green eyes, his mental cage locked shut yet again;
that’s how you know,
how you know they’ve sucked the last words of poetry
from your bones,
that they’ve painted the last picture they can
from the blood in your veins.

That’s how you know they’re already beginning to forget you.

Then,one day, you’ll be sitting, waiting for him to come home,
carving the pieces of your heart into your own bones,
because that all he left,
scattered pieces, and a faded memory of who you are;
a poet born of heartaches,
and too many conversations with his ghost,
just to remember yourself
with the help of his words.

The End

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