you've been sitting in my head for a month now
the least you could do is scrub our memories off the
sides of my brain.
i pick the hairs that stand up whenever someone says your name.
Its like a cold breeze on the back of my neck
not refreshing
the kind that puts fear in your heart
as i walk down the street your shadow follows me
up until i make it back home, you’ll rest in my head
and i’ll never get any sleep
when i wake up in the morning your already there
still engraving your name into my brain
where the physical parts of you are still in your room
doing whatever it is your doing without me
and i can’t help but wonder
do i have my own room in your house of thoughts
do you go down our halls of memories
and fix the pictures frames that are slightly crooked with a faint smile.
hopefully everything isn’t packed up in boxes
labeled with the word fragile in red ink.
you’ve always been sitting in my head
you don’t have to trim the nostalgia off the branches
of our tree in the back yard.
i’ll sit under it and look up to see the sun-rays peak through
and with a blink of an eye
i pull myself out of my head and yearn for the day you come back home.

I created a finger-painted world that revolves around you.

and after every 5th orbit the world, I built stopped.

I drew out possibilities of us that would never touch the present.

and after my mind could not be sharpened anymore, I could not draw out any more futures.

but instead, I wrote out what could have been.

I wrote poems, letters, books, journals...but while we ended my pieces did not.

My art still lives, and the patterns are dulling.

What is an artist to do with no muse, I drown in all of my pieces, each canvas, each blank space, each untouched page.

I tossed away paint brushes, pencils, unused ink, my creativity held nothing but dejection with each reminder.

I cannot write anymore.

I am not able to create, and writer's block is the least I can say.

and I snap my feet and I click my hands, and you're still not back again.

I put one in the air and paint myself every shade of blue and outline myself despondent.

and I remember the oceans of fluctuations I used to dip myself in and the compliments you left on my head by your lips, but we never kissed.

And the ocean is empty now, there's nothing to dip myself in, I am an artist who is blue with no muse.

and I'm left in a room of with every piece I ever created spiraling around me.

I sit and feel every color of emotion I ever painted out, I let the hues consume me.

I let the tones take me as I am.

As I put so much life into my creations and I watch my own emotions dance on the page

I think of the muse who inspired me to do so, my muse who is not here to drop inspiration.

My muse who changes the color of my soul.

My muse who I grieve, who's not dead, but isn't here anymore.

What is an artist to do without her muse.