Inspiration is no longer coming easy to me. It isn’t moving as fast as a raging river, but so slow that time itself does not seem to be moving. I am sitting here, in front of this pen and paper and my mind is sluggish and drowsy, while I am wide awake. I keep thinking of you.
Your eyes.
Your mouth and that smile.
Your touch and how it felt like the first time every time.
I want to dissect my brain and find the part where the memories of you are kept together. I want to cut you out of it, put you in a jar, and save you for later. I don’t want to be thinking about you right now because you aren’t here. You are nowhere near here and the only reason for that is my own doing. I picked up and moved away, thinking that I could find myself satisfied somewhere else, but we both know that isn’t the case.
There have been other men since the last time our lips touched. Those men gave me pleasure and in those moments of hips thrusting, you weren’t there. It was probably the only time you weren’t parading your existence around my consciousness. All the other moments, though, you were there.
While I showered in the morning.
While I tried to carry conversations with dull men.
While I went grocery shopping.
While I drove each and every mile away from you.
I think I’ll just continue to sit here, in front of this pen and paper. Perhaps I will write you down; every single thing about you down. All the corners of your body, all the movements of your soul. Maybe I’ll be able to do this, to finally let myself drown in you, but I don’t think there are enough sheets of paper for me to complete everything I have ever thought about you.
The Lost Muse 