on loving writers

talk to me like a child
but love me like a writer,

love me unabridged,
love me with all my footnotes,
postscripts and appendixes.

love me when i am alive at night,
tangled thoughts keeping you awake,
the sounds of my scribbling
scratching in your ears.

love me with all my imperfections,
the ones that allow me to run away
with my imagination

and the ones that frankly
you just can't stand.

love me when i interrupt you
to write something down,

or when i stop listening
because my brain is running on
metaphors, not oxygen.

i am sorry or
not sorry to tell you this,
but i will keep writing
until i run out of words
(and then some)