Don’t fall in love with poets,
for they love like fire—
they burn, fade,
then trade Aladdin’s lamp for a new one.
Today they sing to your lips like a fountain of wine,
tomorrow they’ll name the moon on another brunette’s brow.
They turn dark-haired girls into summer nights,
give blondes the scent of wheat,
make curls into metaphors that tangle with rainbows.
Don’t fall in love with poets—
they don’t know loyalty,
only rhyme
.
They’ll caress you with verses,
but hide the kiss behind allegories.
When you look into their eyes, they see a muse,
not a woman.
They’ll love you in one stanza,
forget you in the next refrain.
And when you hurt them,
they’ll immortalize you in poems—
like a guilt they refuse to carry.
Poets have hearts made of paper;
every woman leaves a trace,
then words are used to cover the wounds.
They keep their loves in folders,
with beautiful titles but no dates.
So, don’t fall in love with poets…
Unless you’re ready to be a line—
not a story.
