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Inspiration is a funny thing,
it has its own rules.
I should know,
I who travel nine train stations
and stand on a bus everyday
just to be surrounded by trees
inhabited by imaginary wood nymphs
who put images in my head
and tell me what to write next.
What’s in our soul to bring forth
isn’t ours to do as we please,
it will push its way
out into the world
of its own accord
but it will tell our feet where to go,
it will tell our heart what to seek,
like a mutely pulsing life
inside a seed
patiently waiting
for the perfect conditions
before it kicks a foot
into dark, rich soil and
stretches a sleepy elbow
to greet the sun.

Who knows?
Maybe you need me.
Maybe you’ll never name
a song after me,
maybe my face will never
peer out through your canvas,
maybe my gently sloping
posture de femme
will never find itself trapped
within the marble slab
for your chisel to emancipate,
but maybe you need
my eyes
to watch you create,
my telltale presence
before you can set out
and do your work.
Maybe all those nights
you were waltzing with beauty,
your eyes locked on hers,
your palm pressed
on the small of her back,
I was the tune
you were dancing to.

Have you ever thought of that?
Or am I reading too much
of a blank page
where your hands used to be?