To Be Your Muse
I grew up on Ficlets. There, the writer inside me had a home. I'm a teacher now, and a 4th grader who reminds me so much of myself asked, "Why don't you share your writing with us?" So, I come tentatively, searching for a place to stretch my writing muscles again.
What do I want?
It took you 8 years, but you happened upon the one question I can't answer truthfully, at least not aloud, at least not to you. It's selfish and unreasonable.
What do I want, friend-who-reaches-for-my-hand-when-he's-scared? What do I want, friend-I'd-give-my-life-for? From you?
I want the one thing you can't give me.
Sure, sometimes I want to kiss you. That'd be easy enough, a kiss, even a shag. Easy to do, easy to write off as meaningless. Easy. Sometimes I want this, but always I want something more.
Often, I want to know what you mean when you smile into the silence, only to say, "It's nice to see you." I think I know what's hiding behind your eyes, but I want you to tell me. I want you to write it down, because I know you can. I want to matter enough to be written about.
I want you to write. I want to be the reason you write.
What do I want?
I want this simple, impossible thing:
To be your muse.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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<3 This is a beautiful description of a muse: to matter enough to be written about, to be the reason our write. That kind of love is the heady, addictive, infatuation, butterflies kind of love that is fleeting, but oh so wonderfully delicious. People are afraid to tell others about feeling it because it is so fickle and quick to disappear. It's like if they say it, it will dissipate like smoke or mist and they will be left with a feeling of losing something beautiful, a sadness. They hold that so close, treasure it, they cannot let it go; let it pass their lips as words.