Muse

No, it doesn’t matter that this friend of yours is male.
I couldn’t care less.
Why would I care?
Do you think I love you?
That I need you?
Then you’re right. About loving you.
But I love my mom, too.
And grapefruit juice in the morning.
I used to love you like that -
You know,
Marriage love.
How many times did I say that,
My player of blue petition?
I’m terrified
That tomorrow will come
And I will lose focus
and say it again,
Even though I’ve changed
More than your sweetest words
And softest gazes could keep me
The same.
You breed indecision in me.
That’s why I write and think of you.
I’m grappling amongst the ridiculous insignificance
Of a pool of ink, snagging up words
Here
and
There
Trying to fit them together into something digestible
That won’t try to come up later.
People say that writing is best when organic
But there’s no such thing, really, as organic.
Not unless I write with the issue of an octopus
with a quill pen that I plucked from the plumes of a greedy young bird myself
and sharpened with a rock and patience.
I would have to use papyrus, probably.
I don’t have time to find all of those materials.
So I let you inspire me to contrive.
Dammit.
And I am terrified
That tomorrow will come
And I will no longer write
because you no longer captivate me.
You are not my muse.
Jesus is.
You are not my muse.
I am Jesus’.
But thank you for being so understanding
For all those years.
Consider yourself free. Not that you ever felt
obligated.

Muse

candidenuts

Little Rock, United States

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