To speak honestly, you are the reason I write. I owe it all to you because if you trace back through time my propensity to put words down coherently and consistently it fails at every turn. That is, until I met you.
When I met you I told you I was looking for a muse.
You asked, “what do I need to do?”
I said, “nothing, just be you.”
And my god what a fucking muse you were. Everything I write is about you in some way. Whenever I’m lacking in emotion or depth I think of my few months with you and it never fails to produce something. You’ve been gone now for longer than I knew you and your vibrations are still strong inside my soul. Your tune hums in the back of my head. Your kiss still heats my lips.
You never really liked poetry. You pleaded that I not write any for you. Funny how much I have though and my idea for what to do with it. All of it is just the blood from the wound you left.
You gave me someone to write for and that was all I ever needed. Someone who wanted to read something I created. I churned out word after word for you and even more that you’ve never seen. You said it was your favorite thing and I’d rarely experienced a feeling so pure as when I heard it.
You’ll always live on in my words. There’s a place in my mind where you will always have a home. You are entwined with the fiber of my creativity now. You will always be my greatest muse as I can’t imagine anyone else ever doing so much.
A Hopeless Romantic, Stirred 