Muse Poem by Tentative Poet

perhaps it's the way
the towel hangs
just so
on the stuck-on hooks

how the toothbrushes
in their cups
all point in
different directions

or the mirror of
the medicine cabinet
reflecting the light
in a particular way

does she enjoy residing
in this small cramped space
framed by
square white tiles?

does she love
the intriguing acoustics or
how the cistern gurgles
as it fills after a flush?

i hear her best there
when i sit myself daily
alone with some
anthology of poetry

or brushing my teeth
at the mirror
minty white foam
all over my grin

even standing
under the shower
washing off
the worries of the day

she speaks loudest
from that corner
where a spider has
weaved his web

she presses against me
her lips to my ear
her voice clear over
the splashing of the water

at times she whispers
as i wipe my body dry
crackling like static
with each run of the towel

i close my eyes as
her honeyed voice echoes
in the deepest corners
of my mind

my heart flutters
in Morse its rhythm
spelling out the mysteries
she reveals to me

then as she departs
ever so swiftly
i stumble out gasping, grasping
for my spiral notebook