*Sometimes the muse does not give me a complete poem, but just a single line or two. When I write about love- that most over-explored of subjects- it's hard not to sink into cliches. But perhaps among the dross you'll find a nugget or two.
she saves my life
in tiny fragments,
keeps them in albums and jars.
I don't know if there is magic,
but I do know there is love.
she is weather
and when she goes
she takes the blue sky with her
half my bed is empty-
so are my hands,
my arms, my heart.
I still feel her pressed against me
like the ache of a phantom limb.