I was drawing, and you guided my hand. I never thought I’d know a person like you. And you love me.
I was writing, and didn’t have anyone to show it to. I thought of you and suddenly I was so small, and the words were large. You asked me to step inside this range of immense scale. As I looked at the writing in this new way, up close, the paragraphs had a thickness through the paper, a depth that traded microns for miles. I held out my hands as far as they could reach and new words tumbled towards me, ideas to last a lifetime.
Thanks, of course, to you.
You showed me one kind of spirit. This spirit boils away all that we accumulate, all we burden our love with.
You told me to take the hooks out of love. Take the hinges off, scrape the paint, peel off the placards. Love isn’t that kind of door.
My finger traces your eyebrow and I’ve drawn a mountain range. I hear your voice and my protagonist strikes off in an exciting direction. You look at the sun and my camera’s viewfinder is shaded from glare.
There is something that makes a man and a woman exceed flesh and blood. I am forever happy that you are my Muse.