my eyes are drooping
desperately resisting
the call of sleep
because while I lay here
unconsciousness near
he’s writing about me
how long I have longed
to be the poem
the muse
to be used
for something pure
and now
I’ve become a metaphor
It is 6am
he has had me hooked
for seven hours
watching stupid videos
analysing shakespeare
I read him a poem
and he reached the brink of tears
he wrote a poem
and I cried
four hours of him writing
me listening
and I am amazed
because it’s never been this way around
it’s always been me
with the pen in my hand
and its always been
nobody listening
he speaks
and it is my turn to listen
my turn to empathise
and though I love my pen
my hand can’t help but gasp for breath
to catch it
before this moment ends
he writes about me
and I almost ask him to stop
because I’ve never felt this before
and it’s a lot
but I cannot deny
I’m a little bit charmed
this moment is so intimate
his voice in my ears
the warmth of the blanket
draped around my shoulders
the taste of satisfaction coating my teeth
he is writing about love
and I am waiting impatiently
almost embarrassed
at how desperately I’m hoping
to hear my name in his poem
I think this is art
I think
this is what I was made for.
06:12am - 02/03/25.