An Actual Poem

Your presence ignited a wildfire. And for that, there are fines owed. In lieu of US currency, I’ll accept the feeling of freedom that only comes with road trips,  and the calm joy of waking up to the clanging of pots and pans on a holiday morning.

I don’t blame you for the words flowing out of me like a damn broken. But you did help loosen the mortar.

Meeting you was like exchanging encyclopedias for high speed internet. I went from knowledge incrementally gained to immediately available. Coursing out of me almost faster than my fingers can type.

But you should step down from that pedestal. Awards are not owed to you. Being a muse means I know you enough to be inspired but not enough to be distracted by your imperfections.

When you shed your ethereal cloak and become a human my brain stops filling in the cracks, stops imagining.
I feed off of the unknown.

I am not sorry for stories made up of whole cloth because they are worthy of their own attention. And your affinity for making everything about you, selfishly believing these are your stories. That is your truth.
And Fiction is truth. It is stifled laughs in corner booths and quiet tears on a park bench.

These stories arent lies. They are really in my head. A wonderful fantasy that can only be experienced on pages.

I don’t want to upset you but Im making this all up. I don’t know how to explain that the idea of you had value. But the real you, stunted like a pruned tree, is a cliche.

There in your mind, memories swirling, as we think about each other. Lost between a cacophony of coffee mugs and your hastening debt. We’ve settled like the dust on books never again to be read. Piles of ephemera that will be pilfered through years from now at an estate sale.