Unrequited

I often wonder of you, dearest friend,
The Muse whose merest name alights my soul,
For others, nameless now, do missives send
To tell that of the best, I am the whole;
They read these words, my witless games and rhymes,
And call me mistress, wizard-queen, or jerk.
But you, my darling you, who countless times
Have been the only subject of my work,
You have not seen a single line I've penned.
A thousand poems and stories bear your face:
I've flown you high with wings that words might lend,
And you instead would seek a different place.
	Yet if one word could touch and move your heart,
	I'd gladly set aside this lonely art.

11/19/00