When he met me, he knew I was a writer.
I had always been.
When he fell for me,
He knew I was a writer.
Perhaps that was one of the biggest reasons,
He fell for me.
I knew he liked being put into my poems.
His hair, his eyes, his mouth, his gestures
Written in stars across my journal pages.
My laptop screen, His skin,
As I traced it.

When he decided to leave me,
Walk through my front door,
With a plastic bag of things I had left in his room,
In what I had started to think of as our room,
He knew I was a writer.
He knew my heart would burst.
He knew I would fall apart,
And he knew that I would write.
Or, at least, he should have known.

What they say in all those articles are true,
You should never date a writer.
His lips, his eyes, his voice,
Are in my mind,
And in my poems.
But now, they are written in tears, regret. Venom.
Written in my skin,
In the places he once traced.

But he knew I was a writer,
And he knew I would take this mangled heart,
and jumbled thoughts,
And keep writing.
At least, I hope he did.