You meant nothing.

You were meant to.

I didn’t see anything.

 

You were a chore.

Insignificant.

At first.

 

I was told to create.

I couldn’t find your meaning.

You were the reason I couldn’t sleep.

 

How could you be of importance,

When disparaging eyes were all you were made with?

 

Write.

The teachers resounded.

There’s a deadline for this.

 

I was sleepless.

It was midnight.

It was when our poem began.

 

I felt the first line.

You had just begun.

I felt controlled by you.

 

How could you?

 

Tell me why.

For the reason.

For the passion.

 

I was forced into this.

You were homework!

 

A bittersweet finale.

Or an endless and infinite beginning.

 

Words weren’t meant to be special to me.

You are different.

 

Essays.

Explanations.

I can’t compare them to you.

 

I gained recognition.

You gained respect.

 

I am your artist.

You are my talent.

 

I’ve loved you since the first line.

 

It grows.

It spreads.

 

I feel intoxicated.

I can’t get enough.

I can’t help it.

I’ve associated life with you.

 

You’ve given me a title and identity.

I’ve given you existence and reason.

Poets and poems.

Poetry.

 

And so it began.

 

I, the poet.

You, the poem.