She thought the most precious thing that ever existed in this world was poetry; the way the words were knitted together until they became one big sweater that brought her comfort and warmness was all she appreciated about life. But then he came around and she forgot about all the precious poetry she kept hidden under her bed.
'My god, he was so precious,' she thought. And she was sure as hell that she'd spend the rest of her night trying to put him into her poetry; remembering each features of his face so that she could describe them perfectly.
But she had one question: how do you make a poetry about poetry?
'My god, he was so precious,' she thought. And she was sure as hell that she'd spend the rest of her night trying to put him into her poetry; remembering each features of his face so that she could describe them perfectly.
But she had one question: how do you make a poetry about poetry?
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