Touch my cheek,
burn a hole in my heart and stop its beat. Let’s
wander the forest and pretend
that its paradise. You and I, only
one life: a hole in my heart,
a hole in my old self and you’ve burned away
crucial parts of me.
Where’s this girl whose incandescent fingertips held her
world one moment,
a pen the next. Recreating the world
in faux romantic colors, was my medulla.
Crisp pages dripping with lust and love can drive even
a cynical ***** to art and insanity.
“Medulla, I need you.
Muse, where are you?”

Tomorrow the forest leaves me lonely,
Thoreau all dressed up in nature, auroral colors kissing
my skin and eyes, cannot even console me. Searching for
my Muse, I’ll wait.

I need no medulla but my brain’s.
I touch the leaves, the trees, a cigarette.

And I will learn to find my own Muse.