I miss my muse...

Yea, I do.  I don’t miss her because she’s as sweet hot a work of womanhood as ever graced Planet Earth, thaw a frozen heart with no more than a glance and a smile, no, that’s not really it.  I loved that, of course I did, but that’s not what I’m missing about her.  I have those memories safe stored, the enchantment of her company every warmth of the erotic distilled to such a purity as to deny the casual or the crass access even to imagination.  Those memories are treasures, but I’m not a greedy man, I’ve plenty of those to last a lifetime.  That’s not what I’m missing, not the thing I’m hungry for. 

The gift of the muse draws from the erotic, but in all truth it transcends the erotic.  Or perhaps it is the erotic enlarged into dimensions as yet undefined.  I am a self aware man, at this point in my life I’ll say that without reservation.  And yet try as I might I can’t quite bring it into clear focus, the thing I’m missing.  All I really know is that I didn’t know such places existed in my soul until her, and now that she’s gone?  It is such an emptiness to try and fill with nothing more than art, the echo of what that place was when she’d fill it to such overflow as to suspend thought for the sheer wonder of the visions. 

That place remains open, it is mine to wander at will, but it is not the same without her.  Poetry remains, to set a thought soft or scintillating into words but a matter of relinquishing the focus of reality for a time.  I can close my eyes and speak into that place, hear the poem return in the echoes.  But they are just echoes without her.

Perhaps, perhaps those echoes are part of what it is to be a man in full, to know that without woman no act of creativity can ever really ascend into that place where the awe and the wonder set mortality transparent.  Perhaps it is that transparency I’m missing, those sense visions not set in sight or sound, not cast into the mold of words, but rather the sense and sensation of transparency opening away in all directions, the poignancy of seeing all of life and light blended into… into what?  What might compare to what that felt like?  To be a man, and know in full her cry of ecstasy as orgasm grants her freedom from the desire?  Her cry of pain during the test of her labor?  That cry of separation the birthright of every new born infant?  All of everything carried on those sounds brought to a visceral harmony coursing every nerve far beyond sound?  Perhaps that might get close to what I’m missing.  Perhaps.

Or perhaps I should simply admit the gift of the muse is a mystery not mine to solve, resolve myself to endure the echoes and go toss back a shot of whiskey to toast the beautiful woman who hosted the muse for me, and hope she is spared feeling what I feel.  If fate will allow I’ll endure those echoes that she not need to, somehow I think that endurance is where a man matches to balance the things she’ll endure as a woman that no man can ever know.  There is balance in all things even when the scales are hidden from common sight, perhaps this is just one of nature’s balances.  Perhaps.