You are not my muse

How come you don’t write as often as you did?

I guess I lack inspiration?

C’mon you wrote about love and passion, where’s all that?

It’s there, maybe I don’t want to write about it.

No muse? I remember you wrote about people.

No, it’s not that.

I’ve realized that it’s never the same way twice.

You are not my muse,

Not even close.

You are the human version of a headache,

one that doesn’t let me sleep

keeps my mind going around in circles.

You are not my muse,

not even a little.

I don’t write as often as I do,

whether it’s poetry or stories

and clearly you play no part.

You are not my muse,

even if I try to make it that way.

You are simply a passing journey

A passing affair

You are not my muse.

You are not my home

You are my 1am chai near the railway platform

My morning 5:30am alarm

You are my sneaky cat at 2am, to go on long drives

You are the double sugar on my drinks

and even spicier portions of food.

You are not my home,

you aren’t like other poetry cliches

You are You, I am me.

You are the mini panic attacks I get when you drive,

the nights you even take longer to meet even if it’s for a couple of minutes.

You are the nightmare I plan to finish every morning

But as soon as our eyes meet in the morning I add +1 to another day

You never give me the validation that I need/want

You are not my home.

You are not my home,

but perhaps you tightening your arms around me every time I fidget in your arms when you sleep is perhaps that only little bit of reality I see in between heaven and hell you give me.