Always the writer and never the written of,
a muse to none but my own heart,
Mixing, flashing images of love,
places that seem so far.
Wicked longings of broken dreams,
wilted wings that no longer fly.
Freckled skin, slate blue sheets,
forbidden taste of the high.
I've savored the rain on your lips,
licked sunshine from your skin,
Drunk from your kiss,
I can write of your eyes, ancient and dark,
the way you smile crookedly at me.
But I will never know what is in your heart,
you will never write of me.