loving you is complicated

I would give up something -- not anything
to feel utterly and completely alone because

my muse is selfish. she wants me isolated.
she wants me sad. she wants me sorry.

oh and some days I want her bad. bad and ugly --
mascara smeared, poetically tragic.
but this is what our romance has become:

the sun laid down in the sky-
the sun disappeared for the night-
the sun...
it was a fucking sunset, alright?

and my girl was calling me cool,
1950's cool
all golden in the light

"say something in that 50s voice"
"sure thing sweet-ahrt"
"not mobster. something cool."
she squinted in the evening heat
"I don't know what to say, babe. what's cool?"
I lean against the car,
furrowing my brow behind dark sunglasses. 
"there. there's my James Dean."

so my muse has left me, 
as she should,
because I've left her.

she's too jealous
for polyamorous relations;
she packed her bags 
in the middle of the night,
nights ago.

she forgot a few things, though;
she comes by every now and again
we share glances then --
somewhere between longing and resigned.