I believed you were necessary, that
I clung to this notion that you
and you alone
were the key to unlock the
latent stories I held,
the magic that waited within.
I was convinced that I was a hostage to your indifference,
But when you became
lost to me completely I
It was not you that
so much as
my fear of losing you
as I felt our connection grew tenuous;
my fear that, if you slipped, finally, from my grasp,
so would my power over words.
And beyond that even it was
the fear, my fear
of no longer being known, of no longer being understood by you
in that way you have,
the way you knew the dark parts and anxious, neurotic pieces of me that I dutifully hide
from everyone else
that drove me to drown myself in rivers of words.
It was, in the end,
the fear of no longer being the center of your
that compelled me
to put pen to paper and
something gritty and raw and real that people read and find themselves breathless at the end,
crying “yes, yes, I know…”
Because the truth and the trust between a writer and a reader
is much greater,
much more powerful
than even the sacred, silken cord that binds
poet to muse.