"Who is your muse?", she asked
Expecting an answer from me—expecting me to know, with all conviction.
A question born of absolute innocence,
And an answer orchestrated with a tinge of ambiguity.
Who were to look her in the eye and be honest still,
Who were to look her in the eye and be conscious still?
My words, my thoughts—like a desperate slave, working to please her, hoping to be enchanted yet again by her.
So the next time our paths cross, what shall I say?
Shall I say—yes, you are exactly what you think.
You are my muse, my solitude, the one I turn to when I seek to fill the void.
Yes, you make me feel content.
And yes, your absence troubles me, compels me to question the very foundation of what we share—whatever it is, if it still is.
Perhaps you are more than a muse,
More than solitude, more than chaos,
Perhaps you are the question I cannot answer and the certainty I cannot claim yet.
And so, until our paths cross again,
I will carry you within me as a muse or probably as a mystery.
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