Muse
Beauty lives in your flesh and bone. Though I’ve never felt your touch, I’ve ached for it enough to know.
I don’t feel as strongly as I once did,
thankfully.
Time does seem to remedy
most sores.
But forgetting?
That’s another wound entirely.
He’ll always be him.
Unfortunately for me
and my sanity.
How long have I spent chasing
the whirlwind of his beauty?
Trying to pin it down,
wielding pen and paper
like bow and arrow
only to miss the songbird every time,
catching wisps and feathers
here and there.
He owes me time.
So much time.
I was never in love with him,
we never even spoke.
But I found him lovely.
Not in what he did.
Not even in what he looked like.
Just in what he was.
I never knew him, really.
Nothing’s lessened, not truly.
The feelings still flood,
but I’ve grown used to the tide,
learned to breathe
through his sublime.
He doesn’t have beauty, he is.
Not infused, but woven through.
His skin glows with it.
His voice hums with it.
His flesh and bones sing a duet,
a harmony that embodies beauty.
Every sweep of dark hair,
every shift of broad shoulders,
an unrepeatable miracle.
It’s awful.
It’s awe-full.
Dark blue, navy sweater.
He wears it like a jewel wears a ring.
Everything looks good on him.
No, he makes everything look good.
Pretty clings to him.
No, that implies an outside source.
It radiates from him
in whatever he is doing,
boundless, effortless,
terrible.
Get isa’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I’ll keep a shred of my dignity.
I won’t say I’m starstruck
when he walks by.
I pretend.
I pretend not to look.
Not to marvel.
Not to melt.
He’s not my muse.
He’s just there,
and I muse.
Why is he so beautiful?
The curve of his jaw,
the sweep of his hair.
Art.
Art I can’t afford.
He is beauty
in the shape of a person.
How can he inspire this longing?
This endless, awful yearning?
Not that I mind.
I don’t mind at all.
He’s the only beautiful person
I’ve ever seen.
I still don’t understand
why the world
isn’t on its knees
just looking.
I couldn’t get tired of it.
Look.
Look.
Look.
Looks aren’t everything,
but hell if they’re not something.
