The Muse Is the Loneliest One

Prose Poetry

Photo by Marianna Smiley on Unsplash

the muse sits so far from me on a throne of her own making —

and i crave, i do, even as a part of me knows i would be better off not having this fit of madness in my brain. begone, temptress feels like my lone refrain.

but i cradle myself to you, always bidden by your lines, trying to understand you even as parts of me know better than to hope.

i so desperately want to hope.

you’ve called to me again and again over time and space, leading me down hallways, calling to my darkest thoughts — even as a part of me knows better than to realize what this dastardly thing i call a life has become.

do you know me, or do you want to go away?

i ask you again and again what you want, but you never have an answer for me.

i’m always waiting on the line, always tempted, always tempting fate —

and there are such bitter blue happenings all around, things i couldn’t have foreseen, and all i want is to cradle your head against me and tell you it’ll be just fine.

i so want for you to be all right, to be in your gilded tower, for you to be in a space far away from the here and now.

i wish i could undo the past, i wish i could unmake the threads —

but it’s too late.

the deed is done.

i’ve made my mistakes, and so have you.

you’ve had your crosses to bear, and so have i.

we can no longer meet in the middle.

i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i’m sorry.

you were always my muse — even when you didn’t realize it.

i just wish you had realized sooner.