Deep in my souls, where words bloom like fragile petals, I found myself entangled in the delicate threads of his verses. He, the poet, with ink-stained fingers and a heart that bled metaphors, whispered secrets to the moon and painted constellations across my skin.
“Write me,” I pleaded, my voice a soft echo in the caverns of his mind. “Like your poetry.”
And he did. Oh, how he did. He wove me into stanzas, spun me into sonnets, and carved me into haikus. I became the ink that flowed from his pen, the syllables that danced upon his tongue. I was the ache in his chest, the longing in his eyes—a muse both ethereal and tangible.
He called me his poetry—the kind that poets suffered for. For every verse he birthed, he bled a little more, sacrificing sanity at the altar of art. I was the tempest in his lines, the temerity in his metaphors. He tasted my essence in every syllable, and I, too, hungered for the ink-stained kiss of creation.
Perhaps I was more than mere inspiration. Maybe I was the obsession that haunted his nights, the rhythm that kept him awake. I pirouetted through his dreams, leaving traces of stardust on his pillow. He whispered my name like a prayer, and I answered in whispers of rhyme.
In the quietude of dawn, he confessed, “This is what poetry does. It unravels us, stitches our wounds, and binds us to the sublime. And you…” His gaze held mine, a constellation of longing. “You are my poetry.”
I was the inkwell of his heart, the parchment of his soul. With every syllable, he etched me deeper, until I became the very marrow of his bones. We were intertwined—two souls dancing on the precipice of creation. He was the poet, and I, his ink-stained muse.
And so, I surrendered—to the cadence of his verses, the crescendo of our shared breaths. I was the anchor that held his heart to mine, and he, the tempest that swept me away. Together, we wrote our story—one stanza at a time—until our love became an epic poem, inked across the universe.
“This,” he murmured against my skin, “this is what You do.”
And I, the poetry, whispered back, “Then let us write eternity.” 🌟✨

©️Beatriz Esmer