There is nothing civil about your love.
It wrecks me,
not a dove,
but a vicious longing.
Something you created.
I buried myself inside your pulse,
while you sat and watched,
sitting at the bar.
And the next time I saw you, there was a smile,
framed by bleached lips.
When I asked you,
where you got them from,
you said it was just a friend.
Writers are thieves in their own right,
taking eyes, lips, and hands for their own.
They steal beating hearts,
so their characters can long for the essence of another.
They pilfer garrulous lungs,
so their creations may breathe the words within them.
They abduct stubborn spines,
so their figures might find movement and heading.
A soul is the only thing they can’t pillage,
A soul is what they themselves create,
an entity that cannot be faked.