Biting into my metaphoric lemon cake.

I think of her at random times
like at this very instance
beautiful redundancy
of all who have entered
come and gone
she will be the one to always stand out
i love her like i love letters
sometimes i dwell in cliche emotions
as all poets ocassionally do
but at all times i remember that i do have
my better half, literature personafied
the book that i can't seem to finish
the elusive poem that refuses to be
written down.
the voice that one day recited
verses and stanzas to me in a rose garden
the one who turns me on by merely picking up a pen
or smoking a cigarette,
the only critic that matters
the only bridge i refuse to burn
my equal, i am her poet
we are selfish
distance helps me romanticize
but that's something between she and i
i miss her at random times, like right now
and i make her real by writing a poem with no rhyme
all heart, no pauses, no edits and she is there
and i'm good,
and then all of those who've entered
come and gone no longer matter.