I'd write about you, in more than one language, in more than one color, with…

I'd write about you,

in more than one language,

in more than one color,

with more than one emotion,

but tell me,

can you sit beside me and watch the stars rest up in the sky?

Maybe someday with the ink all over my hands,

and blank sheets of paper scattered around me,

Tears pooling in my eyes,

I'd write about you,

My muse, my love, my hurt...

I'll bleed on the papers till I'm devoid of any emotion,

till my soul is hollow,

but tell me,

this poet who always wrote about her muse,

would her muse look at her in the way she looked at him?

Would he even notice that I spilled my emotions over few blank papers just for him?