I will never call myself a poet,
Nor a writer, nor even an artist,
I was never one.

For I only write when I'm inspired,
And in my words,
When they were full and fabulous,
It was because you were there, alive.

I only draw when I find you fascinating,
And in my canvas,
Brimming with colors,
You shone beautifully, bright.

But slowly,
I'm losing all my skills,
The talents that were never mine,
A gift bestowed,
But never was permanent.

And as they fade, so do you,
You were my muse, my every word,
The brilliance behind every stroke,
Now slipping away.

You were the talent, the gift,
That once was mine,
But never truly mine to keep.

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