What is it like, I wonder,
to be loved by a writer?
Would I know
how my hair fell across my
shoulders just
perfectly? Or how
my lips foreshadowed
the witty retort that danced so
forbiddingly on their surface?


What would it be like
to realize that I would be
immortalized
in his heart, for better or worse?


What could wow me more,
his unwavering confidence in my actions, or my overwhelming lack
thereof?


If a writer could love me,
which of my features would demand
the truth, and which
would ache for intimacy,
a touch
or breath's wisp?


I do wish a writer loved me.


If a writer loved me,
perhaps then I could learn
the secret to
loving.