You were there from birth,
passed down from father to son,
waltzing through my veins. My muse.
We embraced, perfectly on pitch,
a song, and then I found
another
and I left you.
I see you
tattooed on my wrists. Thick
black lines, a G
and an F.
My former muse, permanent
over my veins,
under my skin,
a perpetual reminder.
I stare at you, remembering.
Wanting still
to create with you. After all,
you are in still in my blood,
but you’ve left my heart.
Empty capillaries flail
like strings waiting to be plucked,
longing to resonate,
but I’ve forgotten the tune.
Justin W. Price is the managing editor at efiction Horror and for The Bridge online newspaper. His first book of poetry, Digging to China, is available for Amazon Kindle. He has been published in the Hellroaring Review, The Bellwether Review, The Rusty Nail, the Crisis Chronicles, eFiction Humor and eFiction Magazine. He maintains a blog (http://pdxjpricefirstblog.blogspot.com) and is an active writer on Hub Pages (http://pdxkaraokeguy.hubpages.com)
