Sometimes, I wonder if my poetry understands me.
Is she aware of the fact that she's my unpaid therapist and the most genuine friend?
Does she ever wonder how I climb the mountains of metaphors to fetch the best ones in order to give them to her for her trivial existence?
Does she know why I always keep on writing about my agony?
Does she understand my guilty pleasures more than I do?
Does my poetry think of me whenever she's hurt, just like I do?
Does she wonder what I am when not with her?
Does she wonder if my love for her is pure?
Does she know that I go to her for my selfish reasons?
Sometimes, I wonder if my poetry would ever want to meet me again after knowing me.
