Had I known the significance of the departure
I might have dressed up, perhaps put some lipstick on
and some shiny red star confetti in my pocket
to throw up into the air with fucking flair as I walked away
no longer held in place by a muse of my own poor making
convinced that the possibilities pounding in my heart
revealed by vivid dreams filled with colorful, textured words
could only be brought into the world if my muse were present
to guide me out of myself and onto the frightening blank page.
Turns out the muse was a ruse made with disappearing ink
so I didn’t know I’d actually walked away until I looked back
and saw nothing real or necessary for a full page.
I just wish I’d brought some damn red star confetti.