I’m sorry for the email, though true,/
which I hastily wrote to you./
It slammed you a bit/
at the start of it,/
but you’ll know what I think of you.

You are the muse.
Lest you think me confused
because I use words which blunder,
I’ve analyzed the numbers
that give poetic numeric clues.

Of hundreds of rhymes sent,
nearly ninety percent
were inspired by you,
my poetic muse.
Other stats make barely a dent.

I’ve written about food,
work, clothes, the greater good,
God, my shrinking belt,
but never have I felt
so moved, amused, and understood.

If inspired words alone haven’t my feelings proved,
perhaps these numbers will show how I’m moved.

Following is a series of couplets I sent over several days. As I was erasing them out of my phone, I thought I would put them together into a poem!

Hours/days have past/
since I heard from U last./
RU home this early am?/
If not, when? /
If I pick U up 4 a late stroll/
will U go?

I left trifles/
at your door,/
trying 2 stifle/
what hearts yearn 4./

Things for U 2 use/
with your other he/
2 feel safe, unconfused:/
Mr. Lonely./

Enjoy/
that boy.

Nobody else
receives words from my mind’s shelf.
Well, that’s not true completely.
I send tender, romantic poetry
to myself.

The last citrus that /
was left was for us to eat,/
But something happened.

As soon as I claimed/
creativity left me,/
the floodgates opened.

Sad words surge from my/
thumb this Valentines Day. I’d/
hoped for better muse.

She laid so gently/
in my arms,/
so lightly/
on my soul,/
so tenderly/
on my skin,/
so beautifully/
before my eyes./

She stepped so heavily/
on my heart.