Grit your teeth, love.
It’s come to this again.
Like these leaves falling all over outside,
it’s only ever a matter of time.
The muse whispers in my ear
smiling, biting a sweet lip: What’s two plus two?
This bee that knows better
craves a poison nectar.
As branches go bare, I speak of passing things, of
being better people, and we share that look
of wish and doubt. I have a hundred reasons,
but only one that counts.
All said and done
until it isn’t, as we know full well,
the muse leaves with that goodbye:
I’ll see you round.