Sometimes I wonder if I could
get back to that grief
like an ocean it washed
over me
would I be able to find
the artist in me?
I've never been able to write
like when I was with you
when we were free.
Like when you had left
a story in the papers
an old memory at best.
And it makes me sad to think
you weren't even my muse for long
when we knew each other for many years.
Mistakes were made
to get no where fast
you're gone for good
and I just wish we could speak.