She was my muse. I think that was always the case. Even before we met. She was always out there, on the edge of vision. On the edge of reason. A whisper in your ear. Something you can’t quite make out. Then she comes as a dream in the night. Take me away she says. Take me somewhere far far away. And we’ll pretend that nothing matters anymore. That nothing ever really mattered. Nothing ever really does matter.
She was my muse. Somewhere out there, in that sleeping city, her thoughts, her dreams, would turn into my inspiration. Nothing doing, and maybe it’s better not to know who she is. A face, hovering there at the edge of sight. But wait! No! Don’t step into the light. The shadow, the way the shadow falls upon your face. There’s something magical there. Something poetic. Walking between darkness and light, between stranger and shadow. Who is she? And a soft breeze blows through the trees. Let it linger. Let it listen. Let it change into whatever it wants to be. Whatever it really wants to be.
She was my muse. And she laughed then, and said, ‘Why not write about this?!’ And she held up the flower she’d just picked, then turned and dropped it over the railing, letting it twist and turn and fall, caught in the wind as it fell towards the water below us. ‘I think there was a whole novel contained in that moment’ she said, suddenly serious. ‘And I think I just gave away the ending.’ Then she turned and left. Not another word. The wind just toyed with her hair, teasing it out, flipping it, waving it around her as she walked away. Say whatever comes into your head dear. She raised her middle finger to the sky and continued walking.
And like that, something changed.