Long, liquid lines for each feature,
for every subtle movement of his arms, for his kiss,
or for the way he laughs, imprinted in my mind like a song
with its own beautiful melody.
The verses pour out of me, rhythmically, lyrically.
I find words for every gesture, for every smile,
for each syllable he speaks or the sound that slips
from his lips when he whispers my name.
Love is easily expressed in stanzas,
in lines, in poems that can mimic the mess, the grace
of falling in love.
And when I’m in love, the words just flow.
I don’t have to think; the lines know themselves.
The words know my heart without my mind
telling them what to say. Every thought, skipped
beat, or emotion is familiar. And the poems
write themselves, write my love to the page.
And you, you have always been my muse.
But not anymore.
You are no longer the poetry in my mind,
no longer the words bleeding from my fingertips
or the stitches of my heart.
You are no longer the words I find
effortlessly. My poetry no longer paints pictures
of your face, or of the way you touch me,
make my head spin. You are no longer lines
of lyrical language. No longer syllables that melt
off my tongue when I read them aloud.
I can no longer write poetry about you without thinking.
But if I close my eyes and imagine your face,
I can still picture the curve of your nose
and the tone of your voice lulling me to sleep.
I still think about you.
But now these are conscious thoughts.