we met in a high-beamed former hat factory
and climbed up to a loft space with an excellent stereo system.
we had agreed to listen
to the rain
and improvise love for a day.
we were busy with guitars
and hearts,
that was more than a year ago.
it goes without saying
that I never came down
from that soft loft.
we were an odd creation,
composing another oddity
in pink parts.
these stories aren't fictional,
and that is the danger of loving another
poet from a place of brave fear.
she turned her poems into songs,
I burned mine
and ate the ashes.