The poems were deep and dark. Like 70% cacao chocolate, not like the deepest darkest depths of the human soul. They were filled with hormones and the adolescent human condition, more than the darkness that burns within. This was all right, though, she wasn’t interested in his poetry, or his mind, or his soul. She was interested in what ran through the writer’s veins veins. The words printed in scripty letters and too-large font on the pages crumpled on the table were simply a means to an end. The young ones that wrote these types of self-indulgent words were delicious.