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My muse wakes me up
at odd hours
rocking me from my dreams
splintering my slumber
intruding upon my thoughts
like an alarm clock
on rainy weekend mornings
just like it used to
when I was just
falling in love with him.
I would tell my heart,
it’s all over now,
there’s no more need
for any of that:
there’s nothing else
but sleep
and respite for weary limbs.

But there is no telling
what the heart remembers,
no stopping it
when it starts to recant
tokens of its past.

He had told me
that I flowed,
that my words did,
like fresh spring water
on his parched throat,
a welcome, much-craved thing,
or maybe
he didn’t really say that.
Maybe he only talked about
deserts and thirst,
and the heart,
by his tantalizing closeness,
filled in the blanks
without permission
and started creating
memories of its own,
memories that would
someday befuddle me,
give me insomnia,
make me grope in the dark
for some boundary
between poetry and
the more practical half
of heartbreak,

the same way
I used to love him
so endlessly
I didn’t know where
the sky ended
and he began.