She Was a Poem. And The Morning After a Song.


I played her flesh
Like Beethoven touched
Piano keys.

In the silence of shadow
There was a mystery of song.

It was sung:
“All this night,
But one star dying.”

She was a poem.
Not a story.

With her
Came the opportunities
For creativity to flourish.

For in a story
The plot is a choice of
And just the dialogue
Is unique.

She smiled sonnets
And breathed a villanelle.

I measured my bravery
By lengths of courage.

Drank whiskey
Till I was
As stiff
As a plot.

Still surprised
That she changed the ending.

When from the beginning
It all felt the same.

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