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That poem which was the first flowers that I sent you
And the pierced earlet dangling you wear now
And meanwhile all the books that I wrote or sent
They are everything now but the love they were meant to be
The mailbox full of junk, Every leaflet except your letter
And my fever from between 103° F to coming down to a 101°
You are all the madness in between
Of patience having kept and lost
And finally the unbecoming of the poem
you once became in a half-felt hazy dream
but never in real person; The taste of it all bittersweet
Not coffee, not any other brewed concotation
You are the blood of my heart
Splattered in the gully where you play games of mind.

*written from an ex-lover’s point of view, addressed to his muse*

~ Purvi Petal 11 February ©2015#2:00 am

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