The quiet perfume
on the warmth that trails
her cement-cold shadow.
The night distorts the scene
like a green glass bottle,
obscuring the message locked inside.
Young hopefuls, embraced closely by the late, late night,
sit in windows for inspiration
to write their salvation,
and tuck away glances of the moon for difficult days.
These moments are just the breadcrumbs
that lead devoted devourers from the murk of obscurity,
straight on into the blinding brightness of glory.
The path, of course, is jagged
with the crags of rejections,
ravines of heartbreak;
the necessary obstacles for imbuing enough pain
to sustain us.
We need a steady diet.
Unrequited love is the best food, if you can find it.
And mental disorders are delectable too, if you are lucky enough to have one or a few.
But if you're really struggling to find some inspiring well of unhappiness--
Go out and find an earthbound muse.
Watch the way a woman walks and list the things about her
that break easily:
the heels of her shoes,
the tiny golden links around her neck,
her manicured nails and her sense of being enough,
Watch the way her hair brushes her collar bone in the cold,
commanding goosebumps to rise on her fragrant skin
in a way you never will.
Pretend that she was your momentary perfection
and know why she is walking away.