To My Muse

I am a fool to love you. But only fools see beauty in miracles.

Damaged and twisted as you might be my dear, it’s how you embrace it that enchants me. I cannot promise you anything my dear, but for you to be the very reason for me to breathe. Tenderness and love is all I ask for.

For quite long I haven’t been near you, felt the heat of your warm body curled into mine or the beauty between your eyelids. But how does it matter? If you are afraid don’t be.  You are a mess my dear, not a complete one, but unfulfilled inside yourself. A few more months and we’ll be together. Those summer lights and dry winds will take us back to where we started and for once we will be complete. Just with each other.

I write so much about you these days. Ray thinks I should publish a book on the poems I’ve written about you. But I know how much words mean to you my dear, sung or written.  The blinding concert lights, incessant screaming haunted me, for a long time until I decided that for me, the music and the words written for you should be nothing but intertwined. I imagine your face every time I sing.  Your spirit surrounds me and I forget my all; I sing solely for you my dear. The delicate thumping of you heart resonates in my all too delicate ears and I just begin to sway. Sway with love, pulsate with passion and float with the joy of your memory

I wish this would be the part where I am supposed to be with you.

Perhaps this is not our time. Perhaps it is (I can only hope).