The Muse (standard:other, 1085 words)
Author: KShaw	Added: Mar 26 2006	Views/Reads: 3334/2278	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Not new, just reworked...till the next time...it's just her latest visit.

The Muse 

Copyright KShaw2001 

I always knew you'd find me; no clock, no diary need remind me. I
planned on it, worked it out, hid in plain sight every day knowing you 
would pass that way or this, come along, go ahead, pause in moving to 
here, or somewhere; near or far it did not matter, you would arrive. It 
kept my empty heart alive and thriving during the clatter of time, 
knowing that you would one day see me and not turn away. 

When evenings, like forever, started fleeting, going fast, I could see
you at some distance disappearing into the mist, or amid a mass of once 
fondled faces, those one imagines in a lifetime, and yours, there, just 
out of grasp, fluttering in my future, having fled throughout my 
lifelong past. I expected every spring to bring you ino my arms, to my 
side, but when the autumns started coming thick and firm and fast, I 
never once gave up believing you'd arrive with the winters passing, be 
here as the moon fell, as the sun rose, clasping hands, bodies closing 
that awful gap between the noon and the nightline. 

Did I falter in my faith? Once or twice perhaps, but never long enough
to leave you languishing in someone else's dream. I never sent out 
distress signals, never tapped SOS. I was blessed with a growing 
knowledge, and it was whispering do not worry, it will happen, it's 
planned, nothing is happenstance, do not hurry, do not pause to catch 
your breath. So, yes, I always knew. Now and then I leapt to heaven on 
a lovers stroke or a kiss, lent to me, keeping me going in this sure 
direction. I did not bother scrawling each and every new romance on 
cloud or curbstone. 

Why? 

I was waiting, the rest you know. I wrote as I traveled, a serenade or
two for those who got me through some fearful midnights; sonatas for 
those faces that time has erased, a double wind concerto for the wind 
itself; it could have blown me anywhere, but wouldn't, didn't. I 
dropped poems in the laps of strangers, even laps I knew, but in the 
end it was the music you hear, the notes, the half notes of long ago 
planted songs, saved because I always knew you would find me. 

The strongholds, the havens that proved weak and wanting, the lessons
learned, prizes earned, but not always given, the paths I paved, the 
paths unpaved going to town and back, to Greece in dreams, to far 
shore, near field, streets between and always I sought you out; on 
yellow days through yellowed pages, through rages of the mind, starting 
out to a corner, or beyond, without you, though you have never left my 
head or would be heart. 

There is nothing, nothing in the whole wide world I love more than you.
How I found you I don't know. I've been everywhere, seen everything and 
never found you. I've been afloat on every ocean, never seeing your 
light calling me home, spent days lost in cities and never heard you 
calling, then one day, out of the blue your words came, fired my heart, 
brought every dream of every woman into my life, and how I fell so 
madly in love with you. I mean fell in love, head over heels, head to 
toe, slap bang into the magical world of you and all you are. I've 
never been so rewarded by anything the way you've rewarded my love for 
you. 

Is this it? Is this what every human is looking for? Is this why we are
never closed to the idea of being found? I've lived a life of 
transparent failings so you must forgive my need to marvel. I crave the 
sound of your voice, the look of your mouth as it speaks to me, and the 
overwhelming desire to kiss it when it speaks to anyone else but me! So 
I am your Lothario, your Rimbaud, Verlain, Baudelaire, or any other 
member of this whole crew who wonders poetically about shoulder blades, 
or the curdling of juices between lovers, the battering submissions, 
and the scars of so many false perceptions. 

I'm crazy wild about new adventures, suffering a void before
embarkation, lying beside you not understanding the language of sleep 
but content to drown in the warmth of your breasts, your body pulling 
me in, telling your beauty. Have you no mercy; have you no compassion 
for a man lost in this strangeness of tender intelligence? It seems 


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