A Muse.
“Self-love is the elixir of an immortal heart.”
― Amy Leigh Mercree
Often when I miss-
him, her, them, that,
It’s the places, the smell,
the weather, the shades
of sunlight of that day
When I say I have
a scent by heart
& I go to the store
pick and put on
the very same ones, from
Teakwood to Bourbon
And then it hits
like a wind slap on my face
It’s what happens, one-off
perspiring moment, a breath
into that alcohol mixture,
Aroma of sweaty exhaustion
you know when you know.
It dawns on you slowly
As slowly as the wine
that winds you down
Neat as the whisky sour
when it finally makes sense-I am always unfinished
I take my own sweet time
I am my own closure
I am my own muse
It isn’t self-obsession
I am just an abrupt art
You think you have me figured
You’ve never been so wrong
I am that canvas you
Think you have sorted
I am that paint you
Think is enough
When you at the end
Realize you are depleted
You look at my unfinished
Portrait, with an apology
In your eyes,
I shall hang myself in your
Studio, up straight
Paint dripping
Drenching all the
Leftover emptiness
The seeping obsessions
To finish at last
And to know the closure
Is yours. The secret
You shall keep
The artist shall never reveal
How his painting finds
Its finishing touch every time
The secret of real ecstasy
How the beautiful painting
Came to be
The audience shall never know
My unfinished business
Shall always be my business
For I am my closure
I am my muse.
