The night I realized
that you were my muse,
we were under your mother's roof
counting the stars
that danced off your D.I.Y. lampshade.

You asked me
how it was that I knew
how to put into words
the beauty of the prisms dancing around us,
the smell of the city
wafting through the dance of your curtains,
and the feel of your carpet
brushing against our clothed thighs.

But I couldn't.
Not really.

(I did try,
but I stuttered through it.)

When I left you that night,
I was heartbroken
for the words I didn't get to say
that describe the moonlight vision you made,
lying down beside me.

But looking back,
if you had asked me to put into words
the person you see
when you look in the mirror,
I still would've been speechless.

For the miracle of your existence
is beyond words.