When a poet loves you he’ll paint his words outside the lines of your edges and contours. He will exhaust you with tales of “exes & ohs” and “x’s & o’s”. When a poet loves you he will withdraw his moleskin at three AM and take careful notes while you play knots and crosses on crisp white napkins at a rest stop.
You will know a poet loves you when he makes the bed before you get into it and when he hands you a cup of oolong tea and when he reads you Shel Silverstein before you close your eyes and call it a night. If he is a poet, he will love you in the way he eats spaghettiOs in silence while he spells out tacky haikus from across the table. To be loved by a poet is to sit through dramatic readings of Shakespearean sonnets and to keep a straight face through all three quatrains and that painful final couplet.
When you love a poet you begin to think iambic pentameter. You will want to write him into every sunset and sidewalk puddle. You will exchange stanzas as often as you’ll swap kisses. Your coffee tables, kitchen counters, and creaky floorboards will gather novels and anthologies and epics. You two will neglect commas because you are both too impatient to halt each other’s speech even if just for a moment.