You were always my muse
I used your image, the lines on your face, the timber of your voice, the smell of your skin as fodder to fuel my literary libations.
I took the words you so innocently offered me, the touches you so carelessly threw my way and the confusing stares in my direction to create worlds, emotions and feelings that hinged on the very breath and word you possess.
I used you.
I took what you had, what you had given me and I used it all to fashion a universe where our casual encounters, gentle and often heated exchanges were more than figments of a vibrant imagination, but they were water and air, and life, they were real.
I made sure to inhale as much as you could unknowingly offer, held it all in and breathed life into the very creations that fixed me… tried to fix me.
I used you, my muse, to heal me.
I took your hands and I had them mould me a set of wings, I used your lungs and breath to provide the gust of wind I needed and I used your eyes to lead me in the right direction.
You once asked me if I’d ever used you, if you were ever my muse, and I lied.
I lied because you could take it away. Without you the worlds crumble, the wind stops and the wings fall apart. Without you I can’t fly.
So yes, you’re my muse. I need you to heal me now, because the you I created before, the one I used to convince myself that we were meant to be, broke me and now I need you to fix me.
I need you to be my muse.