At nights like this, you can find her poring over dusty books with yellow, stained pages filled with familiar handwriting.
The first time you caught her, it was nearly dawn and she had just finished reading your poetry (in books that you left in the oldest shelves, hidden in the darkest corner of your library). When asked about it, she smiled (sheepishly) and claimed that she, too, wanted to be immortalized in pages of her own writing. At that, you cried out and warned her that those words (of such raw emotion) had to be bled onto paper as a result of heartbreak (of any kind), and that [every stroke of the pen thereafter would open the same wound over and over again].
In her enthusiasm, she barely took in your words but promised she would be careful. Every night after that, she studied your writing (of poetry and stories, all of which were grievances).
Months later, she started bringing home white roses (stained with white lies) and arranged them in a porcelain vase. (Sometimes you catch her staring at them.)
The day he left her in the rain (under a sky so gray and bleak and dreary), she sat (for hours) with a pen in her hand poised over a blank sheet of paper, but it refused to draw blood.
But decidedly she moved on fairly quickly and just as you thought it was done and over with (years later, when she was no longer naive), another came along.
(He crashed into her life like a falling star, but you always felt he was more of a meteorite.)
Her yearning managed to make its way onto paper without her knowing, and when she realized, it was too late. (Sometimes you find yourself wishing she had never met him.)
Then one night she ran to you and knelt, begging to be relieved of this desperation, even if it meant she would never be able to write (to grief and sing about it) as well as you do. But all you could do was look at her helplessly, and remind her that poets were damned to construct masterpieces out of their sorrow (to derive inspiration from pain).
Taking her hand in yours, you gently pressed her pen into it and told her that [the world has given her poetry, and now she must give it back].
I'm doing the best I can with these remaining feelings.
I'll keep them,
bury them,
turn them into stardust.
I'll hope that one day, this love will forget its name.