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apocalypticbobShe speaks softly to me in metaphors: words of silk on velvet
She speaks clearly to me in similes: words like puzzle pieces sliding into place
She speaks powerfully to me in cliches: words to set the world on fire.
She traces her finger around the curve of my ear and across the back of my neck, trespassing on the territory of lovers. I press my head to the pillow, and hear the pounding of my own heart in one ear and her voice in the other.
She complains that I never write about her, as minutes of morning tick by on my alarm clock. I assure her I will, if she'll just let me sleep, but no dice.
She complains that I have never named her, and I refuse, for to name something is to give it more power than I would give her.
She always has the last word. It is often in the middle of the night, hours that start with two and three and four, that I will hear the gentle yet insidious sound of her clearing her throat, and I know that sleep, for me, is finished. I deny it, of course, curling into my tight fetal position with my hands tucked beneath my chin. I hope if I ignore her that she'll leave me alone, but she will be heard.
She is insistent.
She is persistent.
She is a little bit of a bitch.
She is my muse, and I'd be lost without her.
There, Muse.
Happy?
She speaks clearly to me in similes: words like puzzle pieces sliding into place
She speaks powerfully to me in cliches: words to set the world on fire.
She traces her finger around the curve of my ear and across the back of my neck, trespassing on the territory of lovers. I press my head to the pillow, and hear the pounding of my own heart in one ear and her voice in the other.
She complains that I never write about her, as minutes of morning tick by on my alarm clock. I assure her I will, if she'll just let me sleep, but no dice.
She complains that I have never named her, and I refuse, for to name something is to give it more power than I would give her.
She always has the last word. It is often in the middle of the night, hours that start with two and three and four, that I will hear the gentle yet insidious sound of her clearing her throat, and I know that sleep, for me, is finished. I deny it, of course, curling into my tight fetal position with my hands tucked beneath my chin. I hope if I ignore her that she'll leave me alone, but she will be heard.
She is insistent.
She is persistent.
She is a little bit of a bitch.
She is my muse, and I'd be lost without her.
There, Muse.
Happy?
