“Write me,” I said. “Like your poetry.”
He told me I was his poetry—
The kind that poets like him suffered for.
The object of his affection, maybe even his obsession.

That I danced in his heart,
Flew from his fingers,
Changed him from the inside out;
That I was the anchor tying his heart to mine.

“This is what poetry does,” he said.
“This is what you do.”

©️ Beatriz Esmer