Like it was Written For Us (By Bob) I thought you'd never say hello, she said, nothing but a sweater on. You've been sleeping with my old school friend, he thought, his answer a shrug. You don't look like the silent type, she whined. Are you hard to get to know? He winked to hide his wandering eyes. I'm a secret troubadour. She jumped up, stood on a chair, and pulled a book from the shelf. He smoked, leered, and grabbed her thighs. She asked him to read his work. He read, in English and Italian, poems with archaic, rhyming verse on pain and love, highs and lows, with the amber ache of medieval poets. He recited with a lilt, and she poured them many drinks. He smoked. They both agreed it was true, love is stronger when mixed with sorrow. Mostly we burned for the distraction of sex, for each other's touch like it was written in our souls, a natural follow-on from late-night whiskey. That night you wrote all over me, never forgotten, never captured in words.