To my ink-stained darling,

You were made of bones

only thinner, like thread

only tougher, like leather

only brighter, like branches

only loud, like love,

but you were not 

any of these things, 

not really. 

I was made of plaster, 

only thicker, like blood

only fragile, like feathers

only whiter, like paper

only soft, like love,

but I was not 

any of these things, 

not quite. 

We were made of hope,

only thinner, like tethers

only fragile, like lead

only lighter, like blindness

only ugly, like love, 

but we were not

anything, 

not anything at all.