I don't own Bones, and I don't own this poem.

She drinks her coffee black. He doesn't know why, but that was one of the first things he knew about her. He didn't know why though; he pours sugar into his like there's no tomorrow. Maybe she doesn't need to make it anymore than it already is, and she just needs some caffine. She doesn't need to make it into something that it's not. Because she'll tell anyone anything, straight up. She honest in a way that is almost heartbreaking. Or maybe, he thought, she just likes black coffee. Not everything has to be a goddamn metaphor.

And she certainly doesn't do metaphors.

Yet, that's how the two of them seem to speak. It's all in codes; hidden motives and different meanings.

When he was in school, he loved poetry. Of course, he told no one of this. How could he? He was tough, and played basketball, and football, and always had another babe on his arm. He got good grades and had cool friends but... But they didn't know him. He always went home after, to his grandfather's. He was a good kid, just to make him proud. And for Christmas one year, his grandpa got him a anthology of the greatest poems of all time. He kept it in his back-pack all the time. People thought it was a test book.

But now... Now he hates poetry. Because poets are all heartbroken and alone and are all about the goddamn metaphors. And life is not a metaphor.

That's one of his favotire things about her: She's so literal.

So... true.

She always told him the truth. Always. No matter what. And she always believed him. Always took his words as complete honesty.

Trust.

He hasn't trusted anyone in a long, long time. Not really. Sure, he trusted the guys he served with, but only to an extent. They can screw up, get them all in a whole lot of trouble. They can get hurt, can die. Yes, he trusted Rebecca, but she never really knew him. She knew he had become, once he got back from the war.

But Bones... She knows him. She knows all about all his problems and shortcomings, and she doesn't care. She loves his kid, wants to be "his villiage." She's met his brother and stayed with him instead.

Last week he showed her the book his grandfather bought him when he was fifteen. The poetry one. She said she didn't understand most poems. She never got the underlying message. She said that yes, she still got A's on the papers she wrote in her English classes, she could grasp the poetic devices and memorize the lines. But the secret behind the words: She didn't get it.

"Pick one," he said. "And I'll help you understand."

She rested her cup of coffee on his coffee table, turning to him. She eyes seemed to glaze, obviously thinking about it. Then she picked her mug up again and said "My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone."

"Poe," he said, smiling. "He's good. I like him."

"I think he was lonely," she said, taking another drink of the coffee.

She was so literal, but she was so wrong. She wasn't alone. She wasn't naive when it came to this stuff. She was excellent, probably. Maybe it was a metaphor. Maybe she's a poet. Because she is the writer, and he thinks that the two are bascially the same thing. Maybe she isn't literal at all. Maybe it's all one huge metaphor. All of it.

Every single thing they say.

"He probably liked his coffee black."