The poet

You wrote about love in the most intricate way – hiding what you meant with unfathomable adjectives accessible in this lifetime. You made it possible for your readers to want and seek more. You are good at that.

You spoke of things I do not know and I hate the fact that you can explain Pablo Neruda’s tonight I can write the saddest lines with utmost clarity and conviction while I was there just staring at the obra with a big question mark on my face. “What the hell is he talking about?”

“Love is not equal – there will always be someone who loves more, and someone who loves less.” You answered.

You grabbed your pen again to write something about the future.

Long roads, delayed flights, soliloquy, monologues, the great wall, lost souls – you crafted these words.

I waited for you to write the next adjective.

But you’re done.

The poet sees life in a different way describing everything with unfathomable adjectives in this lifetime making it possible for his readers to want and seek more. He can combine words and make it meaningful. He can write everything

-Except my name.