My lover is the writing.

She keeps me up at night.
Mon amant haunts me,
tempts me with her words,
seduces me with letters draping,
words teasing,
sentences comforting.

She’s in my dreams,
flowing more freely
than in waking hours.

I’m reminded of her
when I walk the streets,
words dancing on poles,
flashing in windows,
names cut into wood.

I’m reminded of her
when I raise
the paper cup to my lips,
“caution, contents hot”.

I’m dancing with her now,
as my fingers glide
over the keyboard.

Often it’s a slow dance,
close to the heart.

Sometimes we sit,
on opposite sides of the room,
both wanting to approach
but nerves prevent.

My lover is the writing.

Betraying her
leads to devastating
disconnection, unfulfillment,
stagnation, loss.


Ah, they are my mistress,
my muse.

Women are letters,
words, sentences,
the writing manifested
into exquisite form.
Women are beauty,
tactile, gentle, tender,
compassionate, soft,
love personified.

Women fuel the connection
with my true love.

The allure
of the touch,
the feel,
the desire,
of a woman
litters my past
with unfaithfulness.

A history riddled
with temptation
left me with
my true love lost.

Writing is my lover.

Be my mistress,
be my muse,
or be my end.