Cupid, Borrow My Pen

Cupid, 

The world has learned new ways to fall.

Your arrows arrive too fast,

Too clean,

Too certain.

We are a generation that loves slowly—

Through drafts and erasures,

Through words we repeatedly rehearse

Before letting them live.

Borrow my pen;

It knows how to wait.

It lingers the way a gaze does 

Before it dares to become desire.

Its ink does not strike;

It whispers,

And in that whisper,

Two hearts lean closer.

In this generation,

We fall in love between lines—

In late night confessions typed and deleted,

In metaphors that reveal more

Than truth ever could.

A paragraph can wound deeper than steel,

A letter can heal what time refused to touch.

Once, you struck ribs and called it destiny.

Now, we strike paper and call it courage.

A single sentence can unravel years,

Can confess what mouths refuse to open for.

We no longer bleed from arrows—

We bleed from unsent messages, 

From poems written for someone

Who will never know

They were the muse.

The pen replaces the bow.

Ink becomes the wound,

The salve,

The scar.

Words can haunt longer than touch,

Can linger even after love has left the room.

Oh, how romantic it is

To be chosen by a sentence,

To be loved through metaphors,

To be kept alive

In someone’s lines.

The ink remembers what hands cannot hold,

What time tries to steal.

So please, Cupid, aim anew.

Aim for the quiet spaces

Between lines, 

Between thoughts,

Between to “I almost said it”

And “I wish I had.”

Let love begin

Not with a heartbeat,

But with a sentence

That dares to stay.

For in this age,

We do not fall in love—

We are written into it,

Line by line,

Until the page knows our names by heart.