When your muse tells you, lift off is the same as take off and
that whiskey will text back, you listen.
It’s now something akin to freedom.
I listen to my muse
and wear the loose shirt that outlines my breasts the way I like,
the right places, and the rest of the shirt falls softly like dunes
down to who knows where.
At night, in a bed I don’t know well yet, I hear the dog snoring and
the pouring rain smells fresh,
but all this noise keeps me up.
It’s not enough anymore to say I love you
we’re older now and know better
(Take me to bed, let me wear your sweater)
Don’t be passive, don’t do things you hate
Well what if I like passivity and what if I’m a masochist?
My muse tells me, don’t be silly
you need to feel more, get off your ass and out that door!
I resent the rhyme but that’s what the muse says!
I tell her, I have feelings still for my toys, and,
will you make them come alive at night like I’ve always wanted?
She says, you have bad hair and bold dreams and
those cream-colored sheets don’t make you romantic.