Now

I hope she forgot me. I put too much into my poems to take her out: it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the words, or The Word I chase like a questing beast. I'm taking apart my first house; it wasn't very good, and argued with the character that began as a woman, and ended up a sunrise. Now, it's past sunset, and I'm alone. I'd prefer someone be near me, but not her. She stopped being a person and became a muse before I saw her last. She stopped being a muse when my imagination replaced her with the next one, the one who woke the demon inside me that now won't sleep. If she doesn't find me, I'll be glad that I won't have to explain anything: my poems can be beautiful and nothing else. I stopped looking for her a long time ago: she's a memory and a name, and that's the way it should be.