It’s not that I don’t have anything to write
It’s just that I want to write about you
and you keep me from my muse.
You are much more than a muse
and much more than being anything of mine.
That doesn’t stop me from wanting to run my hands through your soft hair
I go to bed dreaming about that hair.
how soft it is, how long you let it grow,
you stroking it mindlessly while you talk,
me playing with the ends in the car while you drive,
wet and sticky against the nape of your neck with the sheets falling to the floor.
I lose my mind thinking of nothing else but that hair.