You know, they say if you capture a writer’s heart, you never really die;
I wonder if that’s true.
It seems so unfair that you could steal a heart and gain immortality,
sacrificing me for yourself.
That seems more like the Aztecs than modern-day America.
Though, I have to say, falling for you was a lot like being pushed off one of those pyramids.
You know you’re a goner long before you hit the ground,
but it’s too late to change your mind.
There’s only one thing I can’t quite put my finger on,
Did I choose to jump myself, or did you push me?
Oh well, that doesn’t really matter, does it?
It all ends the same.
I often wonder, my muse, what you’re really like.
All I have of you are musings, these things that I write.
For me, you’re like an impressionist painting,
if I tilt my head and squint a little, I can almost make you out.
But there’s still enough of a fuzzy image to keep me guessing.
A little bit of mystery still to uncover.
Even still, you’re more than an image,
it’d be a shame to build you up with things that are less than you are.
Images fade and looks can be deceiving.
It’s not even the things that you do, or show that impress me.
It’s the things that aren’t readily seen.
the potential of what could be.
I guess, my muse, for me you inspire inspiration.
You’re like the uniform of a great man, hanging on a door.