The Blood & The Bones

immortal.

writers, poets especially, are such peculiar creatures..
we can love you for a mere moment after knowing you for barely any time at all
and then if struck in a particular way
we endeavor to fill a novel of pages about the almost of what we might’ve had
romantic realists
anticipating that it could not last
instead we build a love story in ink
so we may have what our heads knew, much better than our hearts, would never be born
you can live forever on paper
if you catch a poet on a sunny day in September
and by October we will be gone..

the blood
& the bones