My Arrogant Muse. Witty, dry and above all passionate. A shadowy memory of you rests upon me like a bandage, protection from the emptiness of daily drab. A breath of inspiration.
Why not believe in the next to come, an older, wiser, more intimate version of you, you so young and unsure. But your haunting stare, the mystery, the closed off ropes you maintain around your coveted, secret aristocracy, taunts me, wanting more. Talent and focus, the precise modes you captured my attention and held it effortlessly, carelessly and without need. All the while, doomed from the start, I imagined a moment, where we were one. Your eyes, your arms, your legs, I saw reflected in my own mirror.
Yet, rich and whirling in your own pretend world, oblivious to my ache, what could be your greatest unknown satisfaction, ignored, denied and walked away from.
Oh arrogant muse, a shadow, an unfilled desire that haunts, unrelenting and never to be realized, leaves me with me, to create.
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