To be loved by a writer is 
to learn that somehow there are multiple lifetimes
and that miraculously they will find you in every one.
That they would know you in any body, 
and see your soul 
coming 
from miles away.

To be loved by a writer is
to learn that nothing could compare 
to the brown leaves smothered 
in the earth’s dampness
of your eyes, 
and you are like 
looking up
to the color of light breaking through the trees.  

To be loved by a writer is 
to learn that the smell of the first snow and winter pines 
is like breathing you in,
and your breath of your giggles 
curls up in their bones,
while your voice 
narrates every poem they read. 

It is to be longed for
in between 
the whispers of
line 
breaks.  

And to be loved far 
after the last 
page.