You were there from birth,

passed down from father to son,

waltzing through my veins. My muse.

We embraced, perfectly on pitch,

a song, and then I found


and I left you.


I see you

tattooed on my wrists. Thick

black lines, a G

and an F.

My former muse, permanent

over my veins,

under my skin,

a perpetual reminder.


I stare at you, remembering.

Wanting still

to create with you. After all,

you are in still in my blood,

but you’ve left my heart.
Empty capillaries flail

like strings waiting to be plucked,

longing to resonate,  

but I’ve forgotten the tune. 


by Justin W. Price


Justin W. Price is the managing editor at efiction Horror and for The Bridge online newspaper. His first book of poetry, Digging to China, is available for Amazon Kindle. He has been published in the Hellroaring Review, The Bellwether Review, The Rusty Nail, the Crisis Chronicles, eFiction Humor and eFiction Magazine. He maintains a blog ( and is an active writer on Hub Pages (

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