You Sing Your Songs

You are beneath my window,

I am but a traveler here, visiting

Strange lands. You aren’t looking

At me. You sing your songs.

I don’t think

They are for me.

You don’t know I’m here. And that’s okay.

Perhaps you never will and that hurts a little

But I’m sure it’ll be okay. Are you the muse or am I? You sing your songs but I write

My poems and my stories and my musings.

That’s okay, but it hurts a little that you don’t even know I’m here, my hotel room feet from you.

My window open and I can almost touch you.

Perhaps I never will. And that’s okay,

Or at least it will be if I keep on writing my poems and stories and musings and

You sing your songs.