Poetry, in its own way, is a type of music.
The way words fell so easily from your lips, sending shivers down my sides with every sound you made. The way you enticed my demons to dance with yours, those words echoing as I twirl them over and over in my mind. The way your hands close over mine in a perfect fit like the keys of a piano, leaving echos of the symphonies we could make.
And you my dear, in your own way, are the piece of poetry that could make the world stop and listen.
— Words (8:15pm)