I watch my Muses, cannot share their life
as lovers do. There is a sort of glass
we put between us. We decide to pass
on some things to get others. There’s a knife
as sharp as fate, as nice distinctions thin.
Sometimes we have to cut to do things right.
We walk a line, to cross to lust would blight
the thing we have, relationship we’re in.
We kiss, perhaps, hold hands a little, talk
of time’s sad jokes. She stares into my eyes,
and I look back. We are reflected twice –
what is, what might have been. Sometimes we walk
each other’s towns. I write the bittersweet
ache of our hearts, will never hear hers beat.