Winged Words For My Muses

How do I show the people I love the light that shines on me when I behold their lights? How do I capture that everything I have become is a consequence of their relentless patience with me and my tenderness? I want to encapsulate their beauty and reflect it adequately and am restless until this is attained. I wish to make my love tangible, for it to be read across my heart and felt with every pore. Tell me, how do I do so? 

I yearn for them to understand this, to spread my mind out like a new sheet, iron out the creases, and toss back into the bows without care and restraint. How do I express this through actions? Why, actions seem paltry and tasteless. The three words are dreary and overused by those who cannot be trusted with them. I seek peculiarity. I seek theatrics and voyages out at the sea of life. So, how do I display my love without commonness? 

I do not believe that I can. No earthly endeavour will ever match the magic within them. But there is the instinct within me to immortalise this love and carve it out in ink. So, winged words take flight from my heart like little doves and come to rest on their shoulders, and I think, Maybe I have come close this time. Maybe my muses can see what they are to me. 

But I fear that they do not understand the magnitude of what this is, and I vowed to the craft a long time ago that it wouldn’t matter whether they did. Rather, I must continue to follow it with conviction, without detraction from the honesty and rawness of what it means, and to cut myself open every day to stay true to it. 

It is simple, yet the only truth I feel as intimately as my hand on this page.

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