how vulnerable a muse can be, can't he? always waiting to be understood and seen. waiting for the right artist to paint him in just the right way. i loved you, all my arguments started and ended with this. but darling, was it really necessary to paint me in colours so dark? you were an artist in your own right but does the muse stop having a say in what happens to the portrait once the painter begins?
so did you burn the portraits of our love down or bury them in the graves of our memories? for your new lover, do you change the colour palettes now or are they the same? is the paint splattered on your clothes the same way as it would be for us? i pushed my luck and got what i could from you, thats what a muse should do shouldn't he? be your good little girl, mould myself the way you wished, read your mind and sat for hours just for you to tear down pages after pages. does she do the same for you? are you making her sit through your hit and misses? does she have to guess who she will have to turn herself into to gain your attention tonight, beloved? or do you sometimes feel an absence when she cant quiet understand what colours you wish to spill tonight? does she swallow the pill by telling herself she loves you? or was it just me brave enough, between us, to say it?