You have suddenly become the Muse to my song.
I had one before, ages ago it seems.
It was a painful departure; a night filled with tears.
An unbearable hole in my chest as if someone dear had died.
But to quickly fill in that gaping hole was you.
Though the emotional challenges never fail to present themselves,
you give life to my words and I paint colors with you in mind.
The cool colors of rejection,
the fiery songs of passion,
the earthy toned words of nostalgia.
You’ve filled me and have emptied me with your actions.
Perhaps my attachment to you is not love.
Maybe it is simply the admiration I have to how you affect me.
As if a single comforting confirmation that escapes from you,
sends my hands soaring and my mind flashes thoughts of surreal possibilities.
I dare not put my heart in this, for it needn’t get colder than it is.
But it is too late.
I cannot deny the way my muse makes my heart feel.
Though I resent the weakness, and I have become too proud to admit it.
I dedicate my desires to success and not that softened emotion which he brings on.
I do not resent my muse though, it is not his fault but mine.
I’ve wished to be rid of him, but when he resurfaces and spins a web
whether it be of lies or truths, I cannot help but break.
It is as if a waterfall of everything I’ve imagined with this muse rolls off my fingertips,
onto a piece of parchment or blackened keys.
If this be the relationship I keep with my muse, then I will grow to be cold and passionate about my successes.
If it flourishes to something else, we needn’t a garden of Eden, for we will have each other.
But for the time being, I will paint and sing and write with you in mind.
For you are my golden muse. That will be it.