There is a piece of my heart -

Torn, flighty, and wild, 

Free spirited and purposely audacious-

 

And it begins now to throw

First pebbles, then stones,

At my windows,

Catching my attention while I prepare myself for bed,

Demanding my conversation - 

Almost a flirtation - 

And sometimes running away.

 

Ah, lover of my soul,

Fickle poetry,

Sometimes you guide my hand,

And then stop,

Refusing to hold it for months,

 

Or wake me late at night,

Incessantly whispering,

And pour me a silken piece made of sleepless nights 

(thank you);

 

Dearest head and heart 

And words, my repose, 

This taunting affair tortures me,

Yet I wait with a pen, 

Intent, desperate, 

For what you will grant me;

 

I am what you will:

Not myself,

But words.