I never knew a song
to have eyes
Never knew a song
to look back
To sing, without a single word set free
To fill me to the brim with music
not sound
To shimmer and shake
Consumed with stories
Stumbling over one another to make themselves heard
and seen
But then again
I never knew a poem
Could be buried
In the wrinkles of a palm

I forget the feeling of life rushing past me,
ruffled hair and stinging cheeks-
I forget the wonder of standing bare-***** in the face of overwhelming possibility,
relishing the shivers slipping down my spine,
laughing wickedly in the face of a glaring happiness,
the reflection of your essence crystallized in your eyes-
I forget the warmth of a summer wind marrying the sinking sky,
of open hands spilling the secrets of Earth, me by your side.

But I forgot to say I loved you
And you forgot to stay

Every poet needs a muse.

I have never forgotten.
Have you? Even once?

As I let you slip through the cracks? I wouldn't blame you if you did.
But I know that you haven't.

It's funny. Talking about distance.
because in spite of it all,
nobody has touched me like you.

Do you still feel it sometimes? Do you still feel like visiting me in my dreams? Or when I'm on top of the mountains, sipping in the beauty of the world? The need to inspire? Inspiration itself.

I do. Constantly.
It's everything I've ever wanted. The loveliest thing I've ever known.

The way you manage to make words come alive. Like air. The way you could make them dance into my lungs and rush into my bloodstream
always leaves me craving more. Addicted.

I'm at the mercy of your language.
Your fingers.
Your smile.

Your words are eternal. Taken as scripture. I bow to them every day. Praise them. Share them. Let them complete me. Give me purpose.
Reflected in pale moonlight and written in the stars.

As I look up, into the infinity of darkness,
and see the words you left there,
I am left speechless.

I mean it too. That I fell. Hard. Impossibly.

We ended quickly. Abruptly. A car accident. An exchange of information. Words hurt, but wounds heal.

I know you've continued on. Effortlessly. Gracefully as you do.
But every single night, I still go to bed, with the desire of making love with our words. Tasting your syllables. Drinking them in. I long for a touch I haven't felt since you. In every conceivable way.

I shouldn't have left. I should have begged you to stay. I would have loved a little more time with you.

I'd wait forever for it.

Maybe you shouldn't, but muses don't work that way.
There's nothing more heartbreaking than a poet without a muse.
A sky without stars.
A page without words.

I'm selfish in wanting your presence.
Your poetry.
It's cruel of me to desire something so deeply.

But nothing could be better
than knowing that
there was a little infinity
where I captured your heart
felt your soul
connected with you
and became a muse
myself.

A dream come true.
We could have blossomed into something breathtaking.

Would it be terrible if I said I think of you always?

I feel helpless.
Like a very small fish
in a very small bowl.
But sometimes,
you make me feel
like an even smaller fish
in an infinitely vast ocean.

I am torn apart by the currents of your anger-
Tossed and shaken,
Until I am left confused and
Alone
in the depth of your problems,
which you choose not to share with me;
and watch in enjoyment
as I struggle to figure things out for myself.
But, at the end of the day, I know I will be captured yet again,
only to be placed back into my suffocating home-
where you tap on the glass,
until I turn
belly-up.

She came in
out of the green
Because any other entrance
would be far too common and simple.
She came in at the perfect moment,
when I believed the world was dark,
to shine a little light for me
and keep a beacon on that distant horizon.
Keep it shining,
Guide me to you,
And someday we'll meet face to face,
And share that cup of tea,
where we can see the other's eyes
and know that it
simply has to be-
Fate.

Every time
I try to write her a
masterpiece
it falls short
in comparison
to what she has
already said

You're graceful
And I know that you say that your shower
curtain is your biggest fan,
but I think I'm slowly becoming
your biggest fan instead.
I bet your voice reflects your soul-
dark
mysterious
tinted glass.
I wrap myself up at night
with thoughts of you.
And maybe I shouldn't be saying this,
but some things are too hopeless
to not be expressed.
You are beautiful in your everyday way of being.
Your language and expression
are artistic,
poetic-
breathtaking;
and I often catch myself thinking of you.
Even when I'm fairly certain,
you're not thinking of me.
I bet the dark countryside is jealous
of your enrapturing beauty,
and I'm sure that when I'm looking at the moon,
I can feel the presence of your soul.
I wait until the sun rises, and I bask in its warmth,
to remind me of the way
you make me feel.

I still write you love letters.
Love letters to your ghost.
Somebody that I might have known once
but view only as a stranger in a crowd of familiar faces.
I still write these love letters for nobody.
All about you.
The nothingness.
The emptiness.
An untitled painting.
An overused quote.
Unattributed.
Maybe I still write about the girl that I fell in love with in the sixth grade.
Or maybe I still write about the girl I cried about in high school.
Or maybe I'm writing about a girl that shares miles between me in the same bed.
Some small thing with fiery hair. No. Maybe brunette.
Tall. Definitely. Thighs and an ***.
Tired eyes. Green.
No. Brown.
I'm still writing about you.
A love letter for somebody that cares.
Somebody that realizes my words are all I have.
That doesn't brush them away.
Annoying. A crowd of gnats.
My words are for you.
For whomever will take them.