The man written by a woman
feels too good to be true.
Reassurance runs through his veins
as quickly as his mother’s blood.
With his wit
comes humor that never fails
to make you laugh.
The man written by a woman
makes you nervous
because what good
could a woman jotted down with inconsistent ink
on a discarded piece
of notebook paper
do for a man
written in calligraphy
with a feathered pen.
Turning the page seems easy with him.
Every chapter
better than the last.
You hope
this is the never ending storybook.
The novel where no one cries at the end.
You’ve never appreciated literature more
than the words
of the man written by a woman.