She sat with me, poems in hand

 She sat with me, poems in hand,

Reading words spun from her land,

Of friendship deep and moments shared,

Of love that bloomed, a bond declared.

Her voice was soft, her heart was clear,

Yet in my chest, there stirred a fear—

For as I listened, line by line,

I wondered, "Are these words even mine?"

Does she write for someone new?

A friend unknown, a bond untrue?

Though I smiled and called them sweet,

Inside, I felt a quiet defeat.

“Lovely words,” I said with grace,

But behind the mask, my heart would race.

Was there someone else she held so dear,

Another soul she brought so near?

Little did I understand,

That in her world, I was the hand,

The one she leaned on, day and night,

The muse who brought her words to light.

Those other friends I feared so much,

Were shadows, distant, out of touch.

For in her heart, there was but one,

And I, her friend, was the only sun.

She wrote for me, each line, each tear,

Though I was blind, consumed by fear.

Her love was mine, pure and true—

A friendship that forever grew.