You were caught in me
like a fish on a hook.
I tore you away,
threw you back to your world,
wounded to the insides of my bones.
In anguish we part,
my companion and I,
and stationed here upon this hill
we watch our tangled knot untie,
withdraw, resign, be still.
The absence of the muse
is the artist’s darkest hour.
I wish my tears were rose petals,
but they are not made of any flower.