You can love the art,
but not the artist
and she says she is fond of
everything I write. She is,
perhaps, even my biggest fan.
But what she really means is:
“Tell me again how I’m beautiful
in ways the other boys won’t.
Tell me again how you’ll be here,
no matter how much I hurt you.”

Unrequited love is the best muse, right?
If I can’t be what she wants,
at least an extension of me can.
Some days, though, I trample through gardens
hunting dandelions with heavy breaths
wishing for nothing to say.