what poet
and furthermore what bard
worth his salt
isn’t at least
a little bit in love
with his muse?

seems a common affliction
for an artist
a love compounded by inks
and thread and a voice thickened
by tears left un-shed

there is nothing to cry about
though, beyond all the silly ways
i’ve found to break my own heart

wishing i could put the blame
on you but knowing this
metaphorical blood is solely
on my own two shaking hands

and maybe that’s my lot
in this life, at least
sleepless nights on my own
yearning to rest my head on
your shoulder and knowing
that you’ll let me every time

and maybe i wrote you
with softer edges
and a smile just for me
and i broke my own
silly little bardling heart
wide open with no help
from anyone at all

because, my love, while
the truth of the matter is
that i love you
have loved you
as a poet and a bard
to his muse

there has always been
so much more than
these words i put down on
paper, knowing you
will never read them
and i will never offer
to speak them aloud
again

for you never were my love
though, it is bold of
me to call you so
and not just from an artistic
standpoint either
but out of a misguided hope

or something just as silly
like a poet and a bard
falling in love with his muse
and mistaking it for
the real thing