These Are Just Words

You aren’t my muse anymore.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
My therapist is pleased.
Not about the writing (I didn’t tell him),
but about the strength of my grip
on reality, now.
“You were living in a fantasy, as I recall,”
he said.
Thinking of course that I
agreed agreed agreed.
I was yes probably.
But you aren’t my muse anymore.
(I haven’t written a poem in months.)
And I’m happy, of course.
Peaceful. Sort of.
Not ecstatic or passionate or out of control.
You aren’t my muse anymore.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
My therapist wants to make me
a poster child for the talking cure.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
You aren’t my muse anymore.