Poetry: To Love a Writer

To Love a Writer

Do you remember when we first met?
Our eyes caught in a fixated stare.
My fingers danced across your open pages
as your hand ran throughout my hair.

A thousand lives in just one breath;
You weave time within your hands.
A finger runs down an innocent spine:
I fall, like time’s coarse grains of sand.

I looked up and saw the morning,
I looked down and felt the night.
More was lost here than just the hours,
More was given without a fight.

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