Muse.

Jet, black hair, falling all over her face. The lingering smile of a night well spent with her lover, playing around her lips. The bedsheet strewn away at the base of the bed. Her clothes on the floor. The aura of her uncaring lucidity, the brightness of her soul. You may very well be deeply immersed in love for her, the craving for a touch from her falling lashes on your hand while you hand a glass of ice tea to her. You lie for many nights, staring at the open sky, the stars forming the outline of her face and you reach out to touch that. You wish for her to look at you the same way she looks at men she falls in love with. She falls and comes out and she does this constantly. You want to hate the way she lives but all you want is to be enveloped in her vanilla scented soft arms. You want to be cradled within her while she tells you stories that take you away from the pain of never being able to hold her while you die a little bit inside.

She sings about love, tenderness and disappointments but you write about her. The way her skin feels against you when she squeezes your finger to drag you out of the café where the waiters wouldn’t let her sing. You see her face shining under the hazy sun as she wraps her scarf around her neck, pulls on her jacket. Where would you be without this ray of sunshine in your otherwise bleak life? You go to work, sit on a computer, send out reports, smoke with your colleagues, come back home and sleep. You do this every day, it takes up nuggets of your life but you don’t care because you’re reaching the end of your tether. You think of her voice, and your day flips over and you become unproductive.

She knows how you feel about her. She searches for herself in your eyes when she sings to you. She, with her perfect lips, high brows and beautiful skin, is your muse. She knows she’s a muse in your otherwise unfulfilled life and she will act like one. Your muse is high maintenance, but well because then you wouldn’t have to know about her soft heart that cries at every small thing, shatters after every heartbreak and she needs to be protected by you. You see her as the woman who would have one day birthed your children but all she is in her heart is a free soul. She will never be yours or anyone else’s. The world will forever be left in wonder at how human beings as beautiful as her could not belong anywhere. Her soul fulfilled by the free birds, free words and freedom of love. She bears in her heart her unbelonging nature but spreads the love to belong in memories.

You only wish you can keep her to yourself but all she is, is your addiction. She is everything to you and at the same time, nothing to you. She is your muse. 

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2 Comments

  1. She’s like the dream you haven’t yet had, though you go to bed every night wishing for nothing but a minute long joy ride that takes you to the apex and lets you free fall under gravity. She’s the attraction which pushes you to take that jump from the back seat of a single engined Cessna, from ten thousand feet up in the sky.
    She’s the reason why you’ll cry.
    And when you wonder about the magnifique days you spent walking in the rain, she’s the one who makes you take on the air when the sky is overcast, when the icy pellets of the frozen water vapour romance with your plane’s windscreen.
    Muse- She definitely is, but hey, who are you? She asks.

    And then you wake up, at the whistle of the tea pot.

    Like

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