Our bodies burn like flames in an oven, so we kick off the covers. I slip my arm around her waist and press her body close to mine. She holds my hand to her chest, fingers wrapped around fingers, legs wrapped around legs.
The morning light comes in blue and soft and subtle through the window, and the stars begin to fade.
I want to hold her like this under a tree in the summer and pass the time in her company, alive to every moment we’re together. I want to hold her like this when the cars and streets are buried under snow outside, so we may truly know what it is to be warm and comfortable. I want to run my finger along the softness of her face, so I may learn every landmark and feature, and never forget. I want to read to her my favourite books on lazy Sunday afternoons, so I can take her to where they’ve taken me. I want to feel her breath against my skin, the breath that gives her life, and me joy. I want to wake up to find she’s not away in another bed, but next to me, lost in slumber, for there can be no other such simple happiness.
This is where I’m perfectly content, lost in a moment when time has stopped and nothing else matters.
But I know it won’t last forever. She’ll soon be gone. I won’t be the one to do these things with her, the one to love her the way she was meant to be loved, the one to love her as deeply as she deserves. There’s no use in thinking about it now.
The one who inspires me to create wonderful things, to make beauty as I see it in her, so that others may share in this feeling. If I had a million words to describe her grace, it still wouldn’t be enough.
I could be sad, but I’d rather be happy instead.
So as the sun begins to rise, I indulge myself a little longer, and hold her closer before drifting off to sleep.
I’m curious to know who inspires you so.…
You describe things so beautifully that I feel like I can reach out and touch them.
It’s a secret. :) I’d rather people not know because it brings more of a mystifying, universal quality where people can apply their own ideas (much like Henry’s James’ novella The Turn Of The Screw) to my concept of a muse.
And I wouldn’t be able to describe things in such a way if I wasn’t so inspired.
Just my luck! I’m envious! I can only imagine what it would feel like to be so important to someone.
Me too.
This is beautiful. You have a way with words. I love when something is so well written that the rest of the world just melts away till all thats left is the raw emotion that words can often ignite.
I love the sex/relationship/yearning entries.
I hope that whoever this muse is knows that she is loved and appreciated and inspiring this kind of energy.
Ugh, I need to inspire someone toute suite!
thank you…your words envelop the emotions like silk.…
@The Invisible Girl — Thank you. The one subject I tend to write about most often is emotions, so to find out that they come through my words brings me tremendous satisfaction.
@Zaira — I’m glad you enjoy these entries, perhaps as much as I enjoy writing them. I think this muse knows, but perhaps doesn’t fully understand yet how special she is.
If only we could all be so significant and affecting.
This is the reason why I don’t write emotional posts. Can’t compare.
You are significant and affecting to me.….and to many others I’m sure.
@Causalien — I used to give up whenever I saw a breathtaking photograph, heard a virtuoso piano player, or experienced any other level of art I knew I would never be able to achieve.
Now, I try to let it inspire, not discourage, me. I’ve learned that I don’t have to be the best at something to feel satisfied. It will never get me as far as some, but at least I’ll be happy doing it.
@Lucy — Your comment means a great deal to me. I feel like knowing this brings a justification to my existence.
The real achievers are usually the ones who simply get satisfaction out of what they do, not the ones who thrive to achieve.
You’re exactly right. They each win in their own way.
I don’t know how I didn’t bump into this entry sooner.… it is .… totally arresting.
Once a long time ago, a high school creative writing teacher of mine wrote in my yearbook under my picture:
“Ah, well. Perhaps in another life.”
It was years before I looked at it and realized what he’d meant, and that I meant something large to him.
That is what I would put under your picture now.