He is/

He is the muse.

A constant variable,

a short fuse.

Absence unbearable,

the great unknown.

Love, out-

grown.

.

He is the bass;

a deeper vibration,

a song written in space.

A sober libation,

divine flaws

--cue the

applause.

.

He is the sun,

but above all, the rain.

A planned hit-and-run,

un-navigable terrain.

Six feet, three inches.

distraught, fresh

stitches.

.

He is the ebb,

but also the flow.

A tangled web,

fresh footprints in snow.

A new way to break;

a most deliberate

mistake.

.

He is the rose,

the rose-less thorns.

Interminable prose,

angel-grown horns.

Tables turned,

bridges skillfully

burned.

.

He is the mirror,

she finally faced.

An image drawn clearer,

adoration misplaced.

Ego crumbled--

three words,

mumbled.

.

She is the muse

she had forgotten about.

A lover’s ruse

floods out the drought.

Love fills her heart again--

where he ends

she does begin.