I wanted to date a poet.

I wanted to date a poet,
But he gave me pepper for cinnamon, 
And wore a shirt with no button, 
So when the wind blew, 
Took it away, 
And exposed his scars, 
The wounds of misconception, 
Fantasies had cut him deep, 
Bleeding day and night,
Trying to consume his last might, 
And fight,
And also feel alright, 
His pores were clogged with wishes, 
The wish to love, 
The wish to pour his mischief, 
And when he wrote about love, 
His gaze was fixed above, 
And he bled on paper, 
Tears drowning the words, 
So when he kissed me, 
He did it with words, 
Left my lips trembling, 
Touched me in his stanzas, 
Left my body burning, 
Fed me with love, 
Left my heart starving, 
And when he hugged, 
Dugged his fingers into my ribs, 
Licked the morning blood erotically, 
Let me down to waste,
My spirit lost in the metaphors. 
I never went to bed with a poet, 
No,! 
Two wrecked ships? 
Two victims of love? 
Two dependants of ink and paper? 
Two wingless flyers?
Two missing caged birds? 
No, 
Two poets can't be lovers, 
I wanted to date a poet... But.. 

Ava ~poet. 
Kenya 🇰🇪 Africa.