When I met Shakespeare,
His hands were blackened with ink.
His sadness was clear;
I let him buy me a drink.

To know my lover
From his soul to his bare skin
Is to uncover
A heart formed with light and sin.

Wrapped in mystery,
He writes in his room alone.
The pen sets him free
From his fear of the unknown.

Crumpled paper balls
Filled with words that weren't deemed right
Scatter in the halls;
I'll read them later tonight.

Each one is a gift;
They tell me what's on his mind.
Each thought gone adrift
Is untouched and left behind.

Oh! But I want more
Than the works you tossed aside.
Please open the door,
And let our tired mouths collide.

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