I loved her with words.

It was oft, and in many ways
That I loved her
With words

Yet she sought me as a sailor does stars
And just as often;
Her room, dark, tempted by
A sliver of moonlight
Is misty by her sighs.

Does she not recognize
The deliberate action of my words?
O, the heavens would have me harshly judged
For the Sundays spent searching
For inspiration
For the hundredth, milestone letter.

That I am a poet, she must loathe
Though I am thankful that her
Loathing loves me still.

I cannot deny
That I am a poet,

And I love her with words.

It was oft, and in many ways
That I lost sleep, writing under a shade of cloud,
Wandered the streets for inspiration,
A glimpse of poetry,

That I loved her.