The men I love are
words upon a page,
Created of pen and ink and fever dreams
An actor's voice
An artist's scream
Borrowed words, and inked face.
Living in a different place
I love the men I cannot have
And can only see
More powerful than drugs or drink
These places call to me.
I wish to touch their rendered skin,
but feel only paper or the screen
And I wonder, wrapped in words and art
And die from a thousand paper cuts to the heart
Is there anyone else,
Anyone but me, who loves words, and ink and lines on a page
More than flesh and bone, and skin and hair.
And I ask myself again, why do I let my mind be torn,
by figments that aren't even mine?
And I must remind myself, that no love is ever fair.