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Of Muses

(7 march 1988)

Candle Burning My Hands


You did something to me,
You made me the poet
of you
forcing me to dip the pen in my heart
in search for the right ink
and for a piece of you
left there, from a long time ago.

But you,
to me you are not love.
To me you are just scribbles
on the mountains of paper I buy
with the little money I have.
The silhouette of an old dream,
that's what you are to me.
A paper muse that I see,
only when I gaze at the stars,
when I can't smile,
when the world won't let me.

Your palms, the shelter of my heart,
where are they now?
Gone.

I've given you words
that can only be found in my heart.
None of them were lies
but afraid
you spilled them all.

I did not mind your heart
passing through so many hands
before laying in mine,
but you just cold not share your love with me,
could you?

Yes, we slept together,
in your room, in my room,
so many times
but in reality, we never really made love to each other
in a way to be worth writing about.

You were in such a hurry
to put your clothes back on,
to leave,
only I hated the clock for spinning that fast,
and the world for being too loud
every time I'd put my head on your chest,
to hear the heart,
my fingers could not reach.

Thief, I'm not giving you anything else.

Submitted: Saturday, July 06, 2013
Edited: Thursday, July 18, 2013
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