I wrote this at my kitchen table, upon a napkin. Subject matter: poetry itself, Madeline

Napkin Writing
The words pour out and the heart feigns satisfaction.
The boy waits patiently and receives what he'd always hoped would be his.
The night is owned by the poet,
Though the pen is no one's claim.
Tears may fall and hands might hold on tighter,
And darkness will cease to inspire any fear.
Still we're here.
No, that's not right.
We're here again. 
It's not the same.
We're better for our loss.
Through our loss we gain--
A chance to reclaim what we never really had.
A hope.
A dream.
A wish.
A reason.
An understanding of what it means to love