Muser

Whenever I listen to a love song, it’s odd to follow where my mind wanders, chasing after the thought of a love song all about me. Struggling to trace the idea of someone so entranced, so infatuated with my existence, it becomes a point to create fiction, create art, and manipulate words and art to gracefully depict a portrait of me. A desire so desperate, so overbearing, it’s strung out in words and song to simply express the enchanted feeling of being in love with me. 

And then I remember, remember all of the times I mused at a man’s mediocre face, sat on the thought of his hands on my waistline, and pondered and retraced all the romance I could create for him. To kiss and cradle him, to guide his hands and fingers to the lines of my lips, to guide him in how to love me, please me, and satisfy me. In the same way I would stir the paint of my brush, take words and tie them together to make a story such as this, I take the hands of the man I hope to one day love and teach him how to love me too. Remind him of the art of romance, take the lead of our love, create a story between the both of us and make our love into a work of art. 

How can I expect a man to make me into art when I’m the artist? How can I expect him to muse over the delicate and diligently crafted curve of my hips and the soft slopes of my legs one over the other? How can I expect anything of him when I’m the one who ponders, who conjures art and beauty of the living beings who dominate and conquer my heart by way of war with my emotions? 

To become a victim as an artist’s muse is the greatest honor I can bestow upon my love. Just as a heart beats the vital blood throughout the body, a boy is capable to beat life into the creation I desire to give life to. Blood is nothing without a heart in which to beat motion and life into it, to take it across the entirety of the body and funnel life into the individual that I attempt to recreate. I’m the muser, I’m the one who writes and whines and cries through words and art, desperate to satisfy my desire through a delightful depiction of my love. I’m one who makes masterpieces out of men because all I can do is simply muse over a creation I strive to one day make my own. One day I will lay my eyes, my hands, my body, and my entire life over to the boy who is to become the beating heart of my art, the one able to create meaning and life into my creation. A creation that takes motion in the inspiration of my love.