Poetry crept in one night

wrapping me up in his arms

wordlessly

I said you are my inspiration

there’s no greater gathering

of you and me

than my notebook

I don’t think he believed me

 

He compared us to a summer’s day

Blake’s tiger

Wheatley’s forever

Sylvia Plath’s deathless nights

Hughes’ huesbluessoul

Baraka’s beat

Morrison’s ghosts

he compared me to the ones who had long since died

or the greats who had given his name over to fame

and yelled we are all alike

the users

musers

ponderers

penners

and thinkers

misunderstanding stung his eyes

so he yelled some more

until he was tired

until he hadn’t noticed that I had turned away to hide

foolishly I had always thought him mine

a secret the world couldn’t access

a feeling without present or past

the ethereal

only I could capture with my pen

thirteen years of unwavering devotion

and he’d leave

on a whim

I grated my heart on pride and lied

telling him to go if me wasn’t enough

that there was nothing more to give

not knowing if I’d live through the night

that poetry

didn’t love me right