Dear Muse

I.

Sometimes I forget how to write because
all that comes to mind is the way your touch
pulls me apart like a wooden Russian nesting doll
with her tiniest most simple form left
exposed.

I once believed that infinity would wrap us
in a blanket of stars and take us far
away from here, we would be an infant planetary system
newly embedded in the Great Orion Nebula
within the glowing red clouds of hydrogenated-love.

I remember telling you about the night that
I tried to find myself between the ocean and the moon
and instead I found the tide pulling you away
from me and my pen.

We don’t speak anymore, but your words are
buried beneath my bruised rib cage
nestled between my lungs and my heart,
restricting every breath as my hope
floats away like helium from a deflating balloon.

II.

I can write of the moon

in a moment alone

where I sit to bask my soul

in the chill of its light

with every verse

the humanity in my heart burns

brighter than Sirius

in the dead of the night

the stars would be envious

for the fire I'd splash unto that inviting page

as I can pour from greater depth

than any of them have ever known

yes, I can bleed into the quiet

of the sickened look through each

turning phrase which would endow

such a perfection

every feverish gaze

through phase after phase

blessed from night after lonely night

while for you...

I can sit and write of the moon.