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Close to Calliope, Too

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My pen is mad at me because I made promises I didn’t keep.
I didn’t let it dance freely on Friday night.
I stayed in bed and listened to it beg
to be loved and to be touched and
to let its seed of black ink spill on skin of white page.
I was too afraid of what it might say if I untaped its mouth,
but now
I’m letting it go.
I’m hearing your voice for the first time in a while:
you’re in a screen with your art,
voice and guitar and foot tapping air.
Did that window know that it was framing you perfectly,
or did it just happen to be at the best place at the best time?
Call this Number 24 the reason I stayed home- because
without even seeing or hearing you
I write about you while I’m still half asleep,
one foot stuck in dreams with eyes struggling awake and
a body in that perfect, in-between state of dawn.
I leave long nights for more mornings of writing about you
while I shower and brush my teeth and braid my hair.
You are brother to the muses,
air to the lungs of my pen who is
closest to Erato and Melpomene,
the three of you blowing me kisses
at the most inopportune of times.
You like to reach out
when writing is as possible as your lips on mine
in an cool afternoon at the park.
How many words have been lost in the demands of the day?
Will they ever find eachother again on the crowded streets of the mind?
And us-
we’ll never find eachother again around mutual friends.
I’m content
knowing every street I walk is empty and
every room where I sit only has one chair
because no one else there is you.
And I know what you must think, I do,
because I think it, too
about others:
I don’t want to be wanted without being known.
All these men have preconceived notions that my arms are a home
of breezes through open windows and silk sheets and
clean counters and flowers on every table…
I’m a fable with a lesson they’re not ready to learn and
I’ll break them in half if they come too close.
Noses sniffing in all the wrong places and
eyes that only see sunshine surface of faces and
are blind to the weather underneath.
Your eyes seem to see and that’s why I only see your eyes
with a mind that’s abandoned expectations and accepted
the abrogation of an us that never was.
And still, I write,
all of our sins of past lives heavy on my mind
wondering if you know I know yours the way that you know mine.
Even bearing this weight I wouldn’t change a thing because
the me that was then made the me that is now.
I’m proud to be done finding temporary fun and
I wish I had kept farther from One but
if not Him it would have been Someoneelse.
Possessed by spells cast by too much wine
that made any bed a cloud and
any smile a good time that was Heaven.
I know that you’re not Heaven either but
you’re more real than the rest.
I have Heaven inside me because that old me is dead and
I dance on her grave before a tombstone that reads
Teacher.

There is more.
There aren’t enough hours in the night or the day
to travel the roads where you lead.
Not enough ink or paper to describe the different plants
that grow from seeds that began with you.
It’s not fair for me to be up this late,
selectlycorrected keeping me awake at 3am with work at 8.
It feels like mallets of a xylophone on my heart. It stops and I restart it
so I can be reminded again that whatisdue is nothing.
While I sleep I’ll still weave words that prove
everything true
demands recognition in the presence of the real tenth muse…
I say this being in love with Sappho, and
only being in like with you.
Clearly, I am crazy.

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