Given the premise that
I'm just a fictional character
unable to transcend
the poems syllables:

How come this sudden urge
to unbutton my shirt
and abandon all work
whenever my sweet wife calls?

And if art itself
is my mistress
I just might be
a real writer
lured inside her cage
of literary confinement.

Then what is more real;
my love for letters
or the letters
expressing my love?