Poetry Like Absinthe

You know how sometimes, often quite inexplicably, you're suddenly electrifyingly alive and tingling with excitement? Because that's how I feel tonight. Absolutely no reason why, of course. But my whole being is bursting with it. I feel ridiculously romantic and keep remembering one old flame in particular - the one that got away; will I ever shake myself free of this? - and wanting so badly to write a love poem that it's practically scratching itself out on the tabletop with my nails. Yet here I am, knee-deep in Horizon files for the next issue of the magazine, and have no time to stop and write the thing that's driving me to distraction; besides which, this frustration is rather entertaining. Much better to be immolated by unrequited desire whilst pushing on regardless with my work, than to slump in a corner somewhere and drown myself uselessly in whisky. Besides which, I've already written one love poem recently - almost good, approaching good, certainly interesting at least - and it'll be out in the forthcoming Poetry Review. And I feel uncertain that I can repeat that success, or rather burn in the same way in a new and different poem. Love poems are so hard, almost impossible. It's still ringing in my head, that one. Ringing and shivering and burning. The poetic equivalent of absinthe.