I met her when I was 15. Intoxicated, inebriated - she appeared to me in a haze, the blue glow overcast on her features. Her beauty was ephereal;it suspended me above everything else, and anything else. "I can make you feel," she said in a hard, determined voice. Coy, yet resisting;sublime, yet urgent ; still - I left my muse, depressed, sombre, not to see her again till I was 27.
Across cities and between lovers - I kept the memory of my muse close to my skin. Her sensual touch, her soft, blurry features. But temptation kept away, and I was sensible for awhile. Until that day...
He had called me in after the early morning meeting. Another day of rush hour commute, the same weary colleagues. Life in the newsroom had gotten to daily drill;phantoms passing through, hoping to materialize into existence. I was startled when he called me in. Yet in a way, I knew it was time. My performance had gotten so bad recently, my leads rubbish. My department editor had been making snide remarks to my demotion. So - 2 hours later, before the rush hour commute home, here it was : " John, I'm sorry, you have to go."
My muse rushed back to me in a recollection of sights and scents;blurring the hard lines of the years into each other - past lovers, old friends, sworn enemies: everything condescended like a strong stream, knocking me out of his office, from my desk table, out onto the hard streets.
I yearned to reunite with my muse again. Her promise came back to me, reached out to me from a faraway time. "I can make you feel..."
Comments (2)
Is it a musical instrument?
i like the way you write. please complete it. :}