The writer died with you, that night the storm brewed so hard in your face, it slammed me straight to the ground.
The writer died with you, that night you slapped me in the face when you said this love thing isn’t meant for you.
The writer died with you that night you let the darkness eat you up and you turned your back on me and left me out in the cold, banging and begging to let me back in.
The writer died with you when you threw my love back in my face and turned to the dead woman and grieved for her.
The lover in me died that night when you pried my hands away from yours and placed it in another man’s.
The lover died that night I gave you my heart, ripe, full and heavy with love and you drained it all into a basket and gave me back the shriveled remains.
The writer, the lover and the muse died that dark and stormy night…