Dear Muse

I think I love you and am obsessed with you and dream about nestling my head into your shoulder
because you were nice to me.

Twenty-eight years ago, when I was lying in my bed and you were sitting in the beanbag chair and playing guitar,
you saw me
and felt me
and knew me.

In a house with two sisters, two dogs, one cat (that I was allergic to), a mom too frazzled to pack me lunch (or give me lunch money), and a dad who used to molest me

you seeing me was a revelation.

It unlocked something that part of me is still searching for

so I keep coming back, in my dreams,
to you.