She may never know
that she inspires the fireflies
tucked beneath my sternum.
He may never look in the mirror
and see the wind beneath my wings
staring back at him.
These dreams
sit on a coffee table
in my living room
under a halo from a floor lamp
and light my words like a brighter tomorrow.
My parents are not muses.
They don’t even like poetry that much.
But for every thousand words I pour onto a page,
I see there eyes, and remember where I come from.
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