Photo by: Emily Soley
Asphyxiation
It is easy to fall in love with a poet,
The way they string words together like diamonds in a necklace
Their pain is so beautiful we cannot help but want to take it as our own,
Turn the poems into blissful tales of woe, we the muse
There is something enticing about forever being immortal,
Living on through each syllable in the poet’s every breath,
Being the object lodged inside a lung, the pain breath-taking
But to be the muse for the poems of heartache is the most flatterin
Every fiber of the poet is laced with traces of you
They might have stopped inhaling your essence, but the damage is done.
Hannah Greenleaf