Writing: The Many Faces of My Muse

She walks with a smile that lights up a dreary day, parting the clouds and sending the warm caress of summer across my cheek. This is only one aspect of my muse, I think as she laughs and laughs while shooting her own sunlight back at the sun. I smile and feel her gentle pull on my hand, suddenly looking and losing myself in those eternal pools she calls eyes.Pen strikes paper and her gentle hands slide into my thoughts; her face taking on a look of concentration only marred slightly by the smirk playing across her beautiful face. I write and write, lost in her touch and the thoughts she invokes. She laughs and sends my heart soaring, my soul aching to please her any way I can. I pen the last line and feel her hands slowly leave me, her smile fading to a pout at being finished. I kiss her lightly and remind her that it is only for now and soon we will be together again.

These are a few of the faces of my muse. She keeps my inspiration locked in a pendant around her perfect neck. Twirling it around her finger, she watches me flounder and look appealingly to her, wanting nothing but to give myself to her completely. Her fingers ache to touch, to invoke the spirit, flesh, and mind. Her eyes are sad as she watches me type without grace nor form. Silent as a ghost, she rises to her feet and walks towards me, her hand slightly raised as if to hold me against her forever. My muse loves me for the gifts I present to her; the fruits of our combined labor. Pen on paper or fingers gliding across a keyboard, she is not fickle when it comes to medium. My muse and I are lovers, lovers in a way no mortal and inspiration ever were.

I shake my head from my day dream, the vision of my muse remains, but now she has physicality. She exists in reality the way you or I do, yet the form the Muse takes on the ethereal plane, where my mind burns to please her, exists at the same time. The relationships are different between the two forms and I, but the feeling is still the same. I sit across from her, listening to her talk. I sit across from her, watching her dance and sing in the sunlight. The woman. The muse. Both exist to me, yet neither are aware of the other. I smile at both, receiving smiles in return. My heart soars for both, telling me that despite their differences, my entire essence aches to please both the beautiful women before me.