whoeth be thy muse?

I tried to extract emotion from your soul,
armed with excuses of inflated rhetoric
but you discerned my motive from my farce,
steering clear of overt confessions.

I failed to realize that which
I always took for granted.
It was that grace threaded with that quotient
that made it that “you.”

It seems my actions are forever fruitless
and the only one to blame is myself.

Perhaps, I could have reaped those fantasies
that kept me up at night.
Instead, I'd rather dream those reveries
that let me sleep so soundly.

All that remains is a mild expression
of vigor for temerity on my face.

Maybe its this sleep-laden emotion
I wish to see in you,
So that we may color the skies
in colors we’ve never seen.