The Poem. The Poet.

She picked a poet or two or three
But still his words were the only ones she ever saw
She read everything she could get her hands on
And yet his hands were the only ones that got to her
She smelled the worn out pages of her books and inhaled deeply
And seemed to exhale only when he traced his feelings on her
She kept looking for muses in all the classic poetry of the world
And yet, yet she was his muse, the candle in the wind that never blew out.
Her pages remained empty
But she was the poem
Not the poet.
That, dear god that, was him.

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