To Love A Writer, Part 1/3

The curls in his disheveled hair cascade like tiny waterfalls,

Covering his dark eyes as he’s leaning over a worn leather notebook.

His button-down shirt wrinkles around his stomach,

In the same place I’ve rested my head so many nights this week.

I like the wrinkles around his eyes even better,

The ones that age him and show up only when he’s concentrating.

The cheap pen I bought him is moving rapidly in his calloused hand,

Like all the thoughts in his head can’t reach the paper fast enough.

I’m sitting across from him in the warm light of an autumn evening,

In my cold kitchen where I know he feels the most inspired.

I’ve never understood why he likes it here so much,

But he says it makes him feel homesick in the good way.

He taps both feet incessantly on nights like this,

Like thunder on my floor and it drives me crazy.

Coffee stains his otherwise perfect teeth,

He says he finds comfort in the bitter taste.

I can’t figure out why he’s always looking for comfort,

When he smiles at everyone like they’re the moon and every star in the sky.

But if you look at his dissatisfied eyes,

You’ll understand why he only writes about fear and regret.

And still I know he loves me like no one else ever could dream of,

Because I’ve never seen anyone look at another person with that amount of passion.

 

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5 thoughts on “To Love A Writer, Part 1/3

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