These ink stained fingertips feel belonging when they are intertwined with yours.

I fell in love

with a writer,

And every time he wrote—

I could feel the pain

In his words

that he used

to so perfectly describe.

It was almost

As if

He had given me

A key

To the inner fortress

Of his mind.

It gave me a

certain respect,

And love for him

And his character.

The pain

That he had endured

And the life

He worked so hard for.

I wished

That I could

Kiss away the pain

within his past,

Write him a new story

He hadn't yet thought of or seen,

With fields of green

Flowers of yellow

And all his days

Without tears of blue

Or bruises of black.