sjsprWriting

i met a poet once.

he told me

that the lines on my face

resembled the lines

he once wrote

about a girl

he’d loved.

i told him

to stop looking for her.

the metaphors he’d written

in place of her would soon stop

making him feel whole.

in turn,

he said it’s not that simple.

said flowers bloom

from blood

and stain hands like ink.

that if I wasn’t careful,

i’ll feel the same way.

he told me

i’d be a poet, too,

and i’ll understand some day.