Muse (poem)

When it’s time to write, it’s time to write.

Muse

“It’s time to write,” she says, standing in the corner,
smoking the cigarette I can no longer have.
“No, I need to get ready for class, and make some copies–”
“It’s time to write,” she says again. She walks over,
drapes her arm around my shoulders, and sighs.
Her touch is from the grave, but I like it. I always have.

“You’ll hang around for a bit?” I ask, foolishly,
knowing she’ll do whatever she damn well pleases.
She purses her lips and brushes my cheek with a kiss.
“Maybe just for a while. Until you’re warmed up.”
I hear her breathing next to me, feel her radiant cold.
I click over to a blank screen and begin to bleed.

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