She infects everyone around her with a longing for poetry like she was Ebola. The need climbs into you and pours itself out your eyes and ears and mouth and nose and streams out of every orifice until all you can see is seeping Neruda stanzas and oozing cummings fragments. It is agony in which you have no choice but to luxuriate. You could writhe around on beds of darling buds of May and tear out fistfuls of a host, of golden daffodils and still you are saturated with a yearning for its persistence.

She has that effect on everyone.

You are not her Moon or Stars or World.

You are not her captain, her Lesbia, her Red, Red Rose.

She may be your muse, but she owes you nothing.