I have reached the point in my creative cycle that my mind and heart are both being taken over by my internal muse. Much like a friend that stays the night and never quite leaves, she slips her fingers into my every day life. Words sprawl like fat, satiated, cats across the warm dark recesses of my mind.
Poems spring up, fully formed while we’re speaking. They cascade behind my eyes as I eat my lunch. My vision is clouded by every picture I didn’t quite catch. A ticker tape parade of poetry falls between us, drifting, tying up my speech and curling my tongue. A lover perpetually unfulfilled.
If I pause or falter while we’re talking, it’s not because I am bored, attention wandering across the shared landscape of our reality. Rather you are my kindling and these words are my fire. I burn, Torrid Incandescent, rendering this pain, such a needful thing, such a delirious compulsion.
A rapturous beginning, middle, and end