There is no cure for a poet’s heart
doomed to be so in love
with my Muse

Our time together
is brief
but I ache for every second
she spends near me

For the times when she stands behind my chair

With a child-like innocence
she will lean upon her folded arms
against my back
watching my words over my shoulder

But she is not a child

No…she is old
and she is young
and so beautiful

I feel her warmth against me
the gentle push of her breasts against my skin
the rise and fall of her every breath
the sigh that travels to her lips
with each word that spills from my pen

I feel her pulse as if it were running in my own veins

Her heart is ancient
and it has known me my whole life

She knows what fire
she stokes inside of me
and how much I crave its burn

I love her more
than she has words to give me
to describe

And I know that
when I near the end of this work
I will feel her press her cheek against mine

It is damp, as will my own, soon be…

Because an honesty that we share understands
that once my pen stops
I am left with only the memory of her
and the words on this page
for an eternity

Until she visits me
once again


About Eric

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