No one told me

that I would suffer

for the muse.

 

I wake up;

I think of her.

I write;

I think of her.

I eat, drink, sleep;

I think of her.

 

She never thinks of me.

 

At best, that thought is

a bittersweet ache.

At worst, it is

knives flaying my skin

from my body.

It leaves me empty and longing

for something I know

I can never have.

 

I write about her anyway.

 

She will never love me,

but I can give her all of me 

through these words,

my words.

The gift of immortality.

 

It feels like a poor substitute

for what I want to give,

for what I want for her,

from her,

but it's all I have.

All she will take.

 

I wake up;

I suffer.

I write;

I suffer.

I eat, drink, sleep;

I suffer.

 

I want what I can never have.

I will it into eternity with these words,

my words,

to haunt me forever.

The ghost of a life not lived.

The ghost of a love unrequited.

 

The price of keeping her alive

is my suffering

embedded in the words,

my words,

I write for her.