Muse

I've seen her through the cracks

in the wall;

her smile is a bridge of ivory

and her hands are peacock feather fans-

gesticulating

and telling stories through 

movement and magic.

Casting spells and weaving dreams

for other eyes.

Her eyes are different.

Impermeable to influence,

unless we speak of falling rain

which draws wonder from them,

or a warm mug of tea

that softens their fire,

douses it with the promise

of more comfort and hugs.

I have seen how she smiles

and how she laughs-

Thunder and lightning-

twins borne from the same womb.

I have seen how her hair

cascades into a wavy brown waterfall

that crashes into the stony floor

that grounds her like an ancient tree.

Her silhouette is a shadow

that flirts with fate,

tempting it with curves and softness

that no one can touch.

I want to meet her,

but the wall stands between us.

I cannot hear her language

or sense her spirit's heat

or taste the salty lies she tells

her many suitors to shoo them away.

And I can only imagine

the fluidity of her heart

as she pours it, drop by drop,

into her lover's golden cup

as he drinks it, unassumingly,

and I stand watching in envy

those luckier lips 

and that elusive muse

only through the crack.