They warned him that she was mad.
He did not believe them...
until she took his heart
and started to write poems with his blood.
“Do not worry,” she said,
“for every poem is stained with a kiss.”
She wrote a hundred more.
It was a fantasy that was never meant for any human.
But he did not want to let go...
until she evoked ghosts and ancient spirits
to hold him tight.
“Do not move,” she whispered.
“I also want to write poems inside your body.
If you move, it might hurt more.”
She stabbed her golden quill into his skin
and wrote until midnight, until there was
no more space in him for another poem.
Tired yet smiling, she asked, “Do you like it?”
“Whatever makes you happy,” he groaned,
not knowing if he was dead or alive.
“But, please tell me, do you also love me?” he asked.
She looked at him, her glassy eyes pure and innocent,
“I only write because of you, my love.
You make me a poet.”
Then she kissed him, and at once
he knew that their love was true.
She showed him his heart
sweetly beating in her hand,
and ate it.