Poetry is a poor lover.
It's never there for you
when you need it the most.
That intense moment
when you long to
etch your soul in ink,
poetry flees from you.

It always comes back,
though.
Late at night
in the twilight of
sleep and waking
(the witching hour),
it returns, nagging,
crying out for you

until you sigh,
until you flick on a
bedside lamp,
fumbling for a notebook
and an old pen
and whisper,

"Hello,
I've missed you."