You Used To Be My Muse

There was once a time when I sent you love letters, and you smiled.  You were far away, always, in either spacial distances or miles, even when you were right beside me.   There were days when you thirsted for my words as if they were the last drop of liquid you’d ever drink again.  They would fill your lonely nights with hopes of better ones.  We never thought ourselves to be good enough, even inside of our inflated senses of ego, the mask that we thought let everyone know we were whole.

You’ve sunk into silence in these days, so many years later, as though your feelings were shred into so many pieces, they melted into the linings of your heart and hardened.   How does one make the decision to re-shape what has been formed into stone over so many years of fire if not to re-melt and re-form into what was the beginning of your existence, stars and floating sky.

I am at peace with being.  Where once I scorned myself, I no longer ingest the disinterest; the passive absence of spirit, held behind a wall of secrecy that cannot be infiltrated.   As I quietly observe the movement of this drift, I understand it, more deeply then I’ve ever seen into our ethereal strings before.   I used to cry from trying, defeated and wondering.  Now, I smile in knowing, because I will continue to float on this solitary raft, happily soaking in stars and overhanging leaves; joyful to be me loving me.   Whether I am loved by others is no longer a need.  Someone’s choice to give love is theirs to own.    I’ve learned to love myself enough to replace infinite lovers.

You used to be my muse as I was yours. You used to write poetry and touch the center of yourself; scribe beautiful rhymes that read as coded messages.   Now, there are robotic movements and steps backwards, unresponsive communications where not even silence holds whispers.

For me, every moment has become a muse.  Each tree leaf that softly dances in the breeze and every human face glancing at me gets read in seconds.  Inside those fleeting moments, I grasp language, expression and understanding of situations that don’t belong to me.   It is from there my fingers begin to speak, leaking out emotions that stir the swirling universes beneath my rib cage.

Here, I sit alone with myself, but I am no longer lonely.

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