When the muse becomes smoke

Some days, 

this love feels 

like an abandoned wing of my own psyche

The light is too clean. The absence of life 

the only presence.

Hesitant hearts

Loving him is lonely.

What once sang through us is now 

a fog

Barely humming 

And yet

He remains

in colours of dull

Still colour, in fact.

Warm breakfast in bed

Somehow tastes 

cold

Oceans between 

The woman he impregnated

Has died.

What once shaped the inside of me

Is scattered like the leaves in this winter wind

I trust our spring will come

With blooms larger than before

For now

Something sacred has gone silent

If the muse is this love

Then this is the ghost