I write less now

Sadness

was my muse,

I lived with her for decades

she held me

and cried with me in the dark,

and I held her close,

immortalized her in my writing

about every heartbreak,

every walk in the rain,

every commute alone--

when all I had was her,

each line was poignant, sending ripples

across time-- my attempt

at negotiating with the void

to bring back all I had lost.

I write less now.

You see,

someone else holds the both of us now,

He holds us close,

he is strong and he is steadfast.

Though he writes no poetry,

He chooses us, he lives with us,

and we are his muse.

and so perhaps soon,

there will be no need

to write so much for her,

not to brood or

to writhe in the deep end,

So suddenly,

we find ourselves at the surface,

breathing and laughing,

rushing toward a brightness

in the horizon,

almost running on water,

skipping stones,

and tripping over ourselves

for that beautiful unknown

at the edge of the universe--

for the rest of our mortal lives,

a vow to exist together.