Do you remember when I showed you my first poem, about you?

it was filled to the brim with metaphors about the language you were fluent in,
one I proclaimed I could spend the rest of my life trying to understand, probably failing,
to understand,

Do you remember how I said I didn’t mind that?

Since then I have become all too familiar with the way you weave your words to form blankets that will hold the most broken of souls,

but you are not talented because of that. 

You are talented because somehow you can put together those same pieces in ways that make me bleed,

You believed it was worth it, as long as it was on paper.

Do you remember when you left?

My poetry ceased to be poetry, it became a shout into the void,
and all the while I hoped your voice,
would echo back. 

It did.

We were both in pieces and I realize now,
we cut ourselves on our own sharp edges and blamed each other, 

And now we both find fault in ourselves,
the fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, but in ourselves, 

And maybe you’ll betray me in the end,
maybe I’ll die by your hand, 
or maybe, just maybe,
we won’t be a goddamn literary trope anymore.

Two poets walk into a bar. It’s a metaphor. 

If I were immature, I would say that words are our weapon of choice, and we’re at war,

But it’s been long enough for me to know, 

We only argue because there is something here worth fighting for,

I will worry when we stop.