light of a fire, staring in the bright eyes of a tiger as you wear your golden heart on your sleeve & try to fight off watery disaster but it'll come in the form of orange rose petals and bright blue lights and ink from your dangerous veins will seep through the pale of your jeans even on the days that the sun never seems to set as you sit atop a dusty mountain that shares your middle name so you climb back down with a look on your face that could only be one of either light determination or distant satisfaction, like the difference between citrus lime and citrus lemon in a coffee cup enough for 2 morning breakfasts and a sky full of shiny stars that you gracefully painted over with red chalk because you were on an adventure

she wasn't a muse
she was the heart and soul of poetry
written long before man or time
before language or song
waiting for a page
and a heart
she could lay down and spread herself out
in ink and blood
and write herself down
in a fairy tale of imperfect and impossible love
and bind herself to the spine of truth and between the dust jacket protecting the book cover of eternity
and be read by the heart she would know was her forever home