Night sits on my chest
Squeezes poems out of me
And grinds my poor soul

there is a
loneliness

in truth

the path to get
there is hidden

and not easily found

and once found
it is jagged and

difficult to hold
onto and share

in any known
language

I don't want to write anymore about you,
but whenever I write about someone else
the verses of my poem refuse
to have a different subject or muse
for it seems like only you
can fit to my words,
can make it alive
and can give it some hue.