The Poet’s Muse

Your hair falls over your face, ruffled, uncombed, raw. You quickly remove the rubberband and redo it, almost mechanically, into a messy knotty bun. And you open your eyes.
It’s morning. The sunshine seeps through the lace curtains, golden and enchanting. Your hazel eyes flinch, in automatic response to the morning light that you have now grown to love. The morning light that reminds you of the night before. The nights you’ve spent with him, in his world-of books, poetry and naked words that you want to make love to under the moon.
You open your eyes, and you see him. He’s sitting at his table. His dustbin has overflowed with crumbled papers. His desk has old ink stains and a drawer full of letters and notes you’ve exchanged. He looks through the window at the old chestnut tree you’ve spent nights under, reading quotes- about love, soul, beauty, and universe. His eyes are closed, lips, you know, are pursed.
“Good morning,” he wishes. You have stopped feeling surprised that he knows you’re awake. He just knows. Everytime.
You walk towards him, and sit down on the table. He gives you his latest draft. And offers you coffee. You read through his latest work, as the smell of coffee and an expertly-made breakfast burrito hits your olfactory organs. You sigh. You reread it. It’s about you. It’s about last night, and every night before that. It’s about how deeply he loves you-softly, soulfully, easily.

You look ahead in amazement. You feel full- his love enough to beat your heart forever. You feel satisfied. So much so that when you doubt yourself, it’s his words that ensure you. When you’re dark, it’s his words that enlightens you. When you’re down and weary, it’s his words that brings joy and fulfilment.

He walks in, sits back down, and tries harder. “You know,” you whisper, as you sip coffee, “there is no word in this universe to describe how beautiful your soul is. The words you write mesmerize me. They open windows in me I’ve never known exists.”

He looks at you with love unconditional. With joy you’ve never seen before, he hugs you in the same way he kissed you when you told him you love him the very first time. Fiercely. As if his life depended on it.

It isn’t your eyes, your soul, or your body
It is your words. Your words fill the deep dark holes in my being. Your existence complementing mine, my happiness reflecting yours, even in the darkest of times. It’s been you all along, it should have been you all along, it will be you all along. It’s always been you.

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About TheBlackWallflower

I'm just your average unique person. I love to read and write (no surprises there, eh?) and think a lot. I adore Rowling and think Harry Potter should be a religion. I also hate pink. I love fluff generally because it makes me feel intelligent and I love poetry because it makes me feel different. (yes, references.) I'm married to Sirius Black. So I sign myself as The Bitch alarmingly often. Oh, and I love Mr. Darcy. And Jo Longo. And Chandler Bing. And Sherlock. (Yes, I'm a fantard.) And in case you want to drop in a good, or a critical word, feel free to email me: theblackwallflower@gmail.com OR, follow me on Twitter: @WallflowerBlack Enough with the babble. OkBye. View all posts by TheBlackWallflower

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