“If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.”

Yes, they will scribble you
in the depth of every corner,
they will bury you deep
inside their bones,
keep your safer than their souls,
but wilder than their strands of hair.
Yes, you will be a subject
that’ll keep them awake for hours
at night and make their hearts
addicted to your breath.

But what did they say about
the writers when you leave?
It’s nothing special honey,
they’ll still immortalise you,
bury you in words,
squeeze their hearts out,
try to sleep in between
wiping out memories and
crashing down their dreams;
try to scratch you away,
but you’ll be a red, itching boil
for a long, long time
and a scar for eternity. 
They will empty themselves out
in vessels of poetry
they’ll shape according to
the pieces of you you’ve left
in them, piercing like
pieces of broken glass.

One fine day, they’ll scoop
you out and place you carefully
on the shelf, among other things
that are a little rusty in their gray matter, but never really gone.