The Muse

The sight of her blinds me. I close my eyes, yet there is no reprieve to be found in doing so, her contours etched onto my eyelids with blazing thread. So, I watch, because most of my other senses have taken their leave.

Merely existing in the same space, breathing in the same air, makes me feel privileged. It also brands me the intruder in the room and a voyeur too, for what could I offer her, I wonder? I have only my devotion to give. I should not rightfully be here, looking on, drinking in all the details of her figure, the fullness of her youth, her alluring poise, the wicked curve of her upper lip when she stares back at me. She draws me deeper in. I have captured all her poses, catalogued all her states. Is this how the Greek and Roman masters of yesteryear felt, when they finally found their muse?

And the best part about it all? I know that she is only mine. There is nothing possessive about me saying so. Maybe just a tad obsessive. I have, after all, paid for access to her.

She is my morning star. I routinely lose track of time during those early moments of the day when the warm sun filters into our room through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows and lights her bare skin in a thousand hues of gold. There is only her then, and the blank canvas we paint together. She poses for me, and my hands make clumsy, inelegant attempts at capturing the genie in a tableau.

I am getting better at this with every passing day, though. My sketches grow more defined, more refined, the strokes more confident. In the moment, I feel unstoppable and fearless. She makes me feel as if I was able to harness lightning with my bare hands. With enough time and practice, I suspect I could. But time is the one ingredient which always, inevitably, slips through my fingers. One moment she is there with me, posing, desired, admired, and then I dare to blink, and she is eloped again.

Elusive indeed, she is. I have come to terms that she works in mysterious ways. Coming unbidden. Transformative and never present in the same shape. Demanding, pushing me beyond my limits. Patient, yet never waiting for me to dawdle. And gone again if I idle away my thoughts.

She is my muse, and I am still, on occasion, trying to recapture her.

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