I loved you long before I ever loved Poetry.

When I first fell for you, I knew not of the lyrical way words could be strung together to sound so melodic to the ear. I knew not of the way, during times of desolation or ecstasy, the mind could conjure up such mellifluous words to describe emotions quite so precisely. I knew not that in Poetry, one could conceal feelings—ones that had the power to draw blood and tears—felt long ago, only brought to the surface with each poem read anew. Before you, I knew not of one of the many wonders of the world, along with sunrises and sunsets and songbirds.

When you left, I was pushed into Poetry's waiting arms, which enveloped me the moment I reached them. The world of beautiful words consumed me entirely—and it was then that I realized that Poetry could be cold and painful, cruel and unforgiving. It could make me tremble with regret, remember all that I longed to forget. Often, in Poetry's arms, I was aquiver, memories of you resurfacing. Poetry reminded me of how I had always felt with you and made it impossible for me to ever let you go. I loved Poetry. I hated Poetry.

But Poetry was all I had, for I could not have you.