in love with a poet

in the morning
he gets out of bed
and walks over to the desk
half-naked, half-awake
he leans over the paper
where he wrote the words
straight from his dreams last night
is it a poem, he wonders
that will survive the daylight?

I roll over and
open my eyes
looking at him, he looks at me
we have nothing to say
so without a word
he goes out to the kitchen

I'm sure he knows
that only a few seconds later
I crawl out of bed
sneak up silently to his scribbles
and read his words
carefully

in those lines
I find all his beauty
just like that
in those lines
him and me are
understood
connected
united

in his poetry
we are together
and between the lines
we share the whole wide world

this is the closest I've come to love

but in reality
he is still in the kitchen
and I am still in his dreams
and we are just two mortal bodies
spaces apart
that have nothing
to say to each other