I've found that one's devotion to a significant other is directly proportional to how much one writes.
I have to confess something
(Please don't think me insane)
But when you're near the words just flow
From my pen, like the water
Drip-dropping on my window pane.
It's such a new, strange feeling,
I've never been so inspired.
My hand glides across the page
Though I'm hungry and I'm tired
Oh well, it's not unpleasant,
To have so much to say.
Maybe you could stay and listen?
Would that be OK?
Aidan Clevinger's Other Poems
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