“am i still your muse?” he asked.
i didn’t answer right away, concerned my answer would hurt or not make sense.
“well, am i?” he asked again.
“yes, you and death,” i answered.
these kinds of questions don’t get asked aloud, so when heard i’m made aware how often my words create doubt which leads me to wonder which create comfort. true love though natural is bound by growth of supernatural proportion that must sprout slowly from every stalk of misunderstanding. in truth and without exception, all is a muse, where differentiating life from death is an individual’s art.