Emily Kirchner

When I was six years old,
My muse told me a secret:
Everyone has the same imaginary friend.

She can be any age or race
form, or face.
Sometimes she's a dandelion-blowing ghost
or a gutterpunk mermaid
covered in tattoos of rough drafts,
snatching sunflowers from sewers.

She is not me; just possibility
Lighting sparks,
Hitch hiking on question marks.

My muse wonders why
there are so many days in an hour,
and if karma ever gets tired
of being called a bitch.
She stirs moonbeams into margaritas
and tells me when the sky
is the color of curiosity.

I don't smoke,
but my muse does.
The first time someone called me crazy,
she popped up in a cloud of unfiltered clarity,
laughed throatily,
and said, "They've seen nothing yet."
She advised me to puff on my pain
but never inhale it.

My muse is every face in a dream
I've not yet met, but know I've seen,
A droplet swimming
in subconscious streams of sequels.

She shows up late,
like a witty comment
knocking on conversation
after the topic has shut.

She says,
"Sorry for the delay
I've been away
Visiting writers, rappers,
New road mappers
and people having really weird dreams."

She's dressed to express
and I don't mind;
She always returns her borrowed time.
It's never too late
to shoot the breeze
with that little ray gun of sunshine.