She was my fountain, my muse;
I was full of her lips grazing across mine,
brimming with hips consciously restrained.
She was not a deep well of joy,
but a wild ocean of an angel--
and I was special too,
because I knew.
I drank deep of happiness, for
the keeper of the source never thirsts.
I continued long after she left,
laid off without solace but
to quander my remaining fortune.
Then with poetry I scraped
everything I had left
like jam from a jar,
somehow not realizing
that when it was gone
I would be empty.