To the memory of a former Muse
who no longer serves me in that, or any, purpose.
The pedestal on which I’ve placed you is now so • high that even I can’t reach you, scent of crème-de-menthe • reclines on your lips, drops a hint, drips like perfume • into my head, fills my thoughts with a million ways • to phrase just one wish, traces your name with nimble • •
fingertips, truly there has to be a better way to • say this, the hardest questions I face are always ones • only I can answer, everything that I make is but • another metaphor for some desire of which I can’t partake, • yet this is nothing more than I can take or • •
handle, suffering in silence is something I’ve mastered from an • early age, learned never to complain, to eat everything on • my plate, a disaster artist starving for a taste before • fame does to you what ruins fate, before it erases • us, youth’s innocence laid to waste in the line of • •
fire they call the trajectory of destiny, assassins venture out • like true Capitalists, dress in darkness custom-fitted, and ask for • a kiss before they script your life into a lie • they expect you to live with, no, don’t let them • win, those men in their suits don’t know you like • •
I did, if this is the end, then let’s get • it over with quick, I hate goodbyes and I know • I’ll cry on my way to the exit, no need • for security to escort me out, just tell me again, • love, what your dream was back when we were kids.