Seduce me with ink.
With letters that smell of candle smoke
With canvas
With letters written at midnight
Do not give me modern love
quick, careless, half-spoken.
No.
Give me the kind that ruins men.
The kind that keeps poets awake
arguing with God at dawn.
In a room of unread pages, a rose wilts quietly,
Its scent accused by the weight of unwritten truths.
I turned the book, but it turned me instead,
Each line a confession I did not agree to sign.
Somewhere, a man weeps for beauty he cannot deserve,
And still, he reads because to stop is to disappear.
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