My Writer Boyfriend

I love the ink that stains his hands, A quiet world where his heart expands. He gifts me lines the stars would keep, And whispers poems before I sleep. His eyes are maps of words untold, Each glance a story, soft yet bold. When silence falls, it feels so near, For even silence writes me here. He pens my smile, he drafts my name, In metaphors that burn like flame. The paper bends beneath his art, But every page holds half my heart. To love a writer is to know, That in his verses, I will grow. For though his ink may roam the skies, I live forever in his lines.