Two Poems

Just two poets in the spiral wavy wind that is life essence, trying to figure out how to express themselves, one was suicidal, the other one just sad, heartbroken.
They were meant for bigger things, they had met, they healed and broke again. He was still a poet after that, but lost his pen; 
She instead was just that, a mix of ink, chemicals, death, but a flower seed grew in her.
She spat all the rotten, all the poison inside her on those white graph sheets, only a flower, that’s what remained, only a flower she patiently cultivated through the poetry she left. He was no more visible to her, but in her mind the single thought.
Instead, on the other hand, he was no pen, no ink, no bad, just a poet without his diary, an empty man, no ideas shared in black, just in his dark haired head, eating everything inside himself.
Actually, he had something, which faked the pen, but her, she had invisible ink inside herself. No wake of words, no wake of the feelings
he once expressed, felt.
And in the same way she vanished, just air.
One day the two poets found each other back, in a cloudy rainy day, eyes locked, shivering backs, heart-quakes.
The pen found the poets’ hand, the flower aroma bewitched the man’s senses, fingers shook, he felt something real for the first time again, Ecstasy.
From there on beautiful art, self love, went on, happiness between lines was palpable, visible, the earth balanced, nature was almost as pretty as them, as what they were able to create, linked together,
two poems.