One year since I met him.
Six months since I saw him.
Three since I've spoken to him.
And finally I'm done.
Like polar bears lumbering
Over sand dunes I'm dried up.
I can't believe that he was a man
For whom I thought I could have
Written epics for.

I need new inspiration.
When your muse is fickle
As leaves on deciduous trees
One must find a new source
For the Mississippi.

I will take up crime, start small.
Jaywalking!
And write a limerick about the
Thrill of it.

I'll dance with more than one
Man in a night let them touch
But not keep. They cannot
Breach this beach it's mine.
I don't invite strangers into my
Bed, I take none of them home,
but somehow they're all a poem.
I don't want to be a writer
With pages of ex-lovers in
Her notebooks scrawled
Out in ink, like blood,
Like tears from a flood.
Cause I will pour out all
My words, my language is
Love, on the pages balled
Up in waste baskets hidden.
My heart beats to a rhythm
Too irregular a meter
For most to keep up.
I get it.

A muse is old news.
I can write it better
Than some hipster sweater
Wearing, never texting first,
Fall in and out of love headfirst
Kinda man.

But oh man, I'd love a man
With whom I would write
Perpetual sonnets.
Fill volumes with devotion
Not about one night but all
The nights that we fall asleep
Together knowing that tomorrow
Is another day I get to write about him.
And though nothing will be new
There will be something beautiful
About when the whiskey on his breath
Meets the coffee on mine.
We all have our vices,
The idea of love is mine.
Each kiss would taste like rhyme
A thief he'd steal my heart
A victimless crime.

Till then I will take new roads
Through yellow wood and
Envy the song of the nightingale,
Because I too know why the
Caged bird sings.
It rests in my chest, flutters,
And gets excited by others
Touch and false promises.
I promise this: I will wait love
But idle shall my pen never be.