Why not

Writing poetry was always about

falling in love with someone

a certain girl or a boy who made my knees weaken when

the sun caught their deep blue or brown eyes a certain way

when fringed eyelashes brushed on soft cheeks and

white or brown skin took on a hint of rose


but now, I am not on the hunt;

am I allowed to see a muse in the mirror?

Perhaps I can set aside years of hate and antipathy and invisiblity and

fall in love with

myself.