The Muse

He speaks in paragraphs and catches me lingering in his phrases, weaving his letters between my fingers. They dance across my body, sending electric up my spine. I am crippled. My foot is caught in the tail of his a and my hair falls inside the way he pronounces his i's. His consonants are tender and his vowels are angered by interruption, therefore their harmony and eloquence is unbroken. Forever whole and binding within a word, turning them into the beautiful sentence that he has sculptured for me to reside in.

I can't get a word in,
Because I can hardly catch my breath.

My speech is impaired and my vocal utterances are his and his alone, tangled between his sheets and tormented somewhere inside his soul, bound to the other eternal until his spirit tears free and mine lays still to petrify into dust.

Gasping for breath, I find the discarded letters from his template and I string them across my knitting needle into the scarf I wish to place around his neck.

I become the scarf.

I wrap myself around his neck and nuzzle there. The vibrations from his throat comfort me and I fall into his slumber as he drinks his afternoon tea and speaks in more riddles emerging from his innards.

I wish to be his riddle.
I wish to be the poem that Abelard speaks to Eloise. I wish to receive the words of Eloise in kind.
I wish for him to read me, to speak me, to breathe me. I wish for him to close his eyes and run his fingers across my spine, interpreting the brail of my every detail.

He does not read me. In this way, I am forgotten and I disappear. My soul tears free and I can no longer stay here. I travel the quills of various great men and I breathe life into their ink, never forgetting the love I shared for the whimsical poet man and threads I embedded myself into within his scarf. Though, he'll never know.


So ends the story of how the greatest poem ever known was never written. And now I've forgotten what it was.