As the half moon sinks/
deep into the sea, she meets/
herself. We find us.
or
we connect.
There once was a girl I could woo
by writing anything I wanted to.
But then she understood
that she could also write good
and we became writers two, too!
You don’t read my poems./
My writing’s all about you./
You wouldn’t turn green.
Blood drains from my face. /
My hands turn cold and clammy./
Your silence scares me.
____ _________ _____ _______ ___________.
__ ______ ______ _____ _______ ___ ____,
__________ _____ _____
________ __ _____ ______!
________ ______.
_ _______.
I guess/
nothing’s worse/
than blank verse/
about emptiness.