He is the poem I want to write.

The pleasure pain of struggling for words at one am.

Emotions bubbling, White water rushing over pebbled beach

He is my muse

Wind whipped vision at the waters edge standing tall

Smooth sculpted satin.

Watching the retreating tide and soothing my fears-intangible yet real.

Hot on my heels, he is the Hound of Hell

Dream vision in my restless sleep

I reach for him in the night but wake alone and wanting

Delirious, smouldering, yet icy cold

As words drip from my pen, coagulate on the paper half formed

But he is my muse the poem I will write, so the letters appear

Slowly at first, stumbling over syntax, words multiply

Filled with longing, hopeful dreams, his arms holding me, enfolding My World

The world of the dreamer

Tearing my misgivings and doubts to scattered fragments blown away on the heat of his breath.

Taking my screams to swallow them whole.

He is my muse.

Name written on my heart.

And I realise that the poem I want to write

Is Him.