Of Muses And Other Ghosts
His Muse, Her Muse
'It's not a crime, (he started)
to put you on a page,
it's just worthless.
Using ink and paper, to shape you in my room,
to fold you, and put you in my pocket,
to drag you on my chest, and sleep with you, alone,
to kiss your cellulose lips, to put my name on your skin,
to sell you to the world
in pieces, as a book,
or to send you to a woman I adore, to praise her, to make her warm,
when in fact, I'm shaping you...
To slid you in a book, to forget about creating you,
or feeling ashamed, of me
unable to shape you as you are,
to give you with regret, fire...
What holds you on this page, is not love, but my obsession,
seeking to give you shape outside my mind,
to make you more than a muse.
Your skin, the paper where I spill my ink, your lips, the cloud touching my cheeks, your lap, the pillow where I sleep my head, your arms, the only clothes that I need...
I have started this page, without knowing how to end...
well, here it ends.'
With a melody on her lips, unable to sleep (without a kiss) ,
she reads his pages, when she feels alone,
wondering about the colour of his heart,
about his life outside paper.
The kisses that he might have put on her naked chest, like words on a page,
(if only he would know)
while sinking his hand into her palm,
feeling the pulse of her neck, with his lips
putting his chest on her chest, hiding her breasts from the moon and the stars,
it, clings to her heart again, tonight.
His pen and her heart, are always restless at the same time.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
as he saw his muse, naked, in the heart of his paper, even before his pen started putting ink on it.
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