muse.

It is a terribly wonderful experience to have
Her move you.
It's never for you;
Only to let you fill those spaces
Left vacant. Growing full and forgotten.
Fill pages with her.
Love. Sadness. Disgust. Hate. Regret.
She is not yours.
Convince yourself of indifference. Of using.
Sell ideas of waiting for
Something else.
She is only a muse. Have always known.
No love to be found for the words
You've spilled.
There is appreciation. Loyalty. Confusion
maybe. A bond that both gain from.
But time leads us on.
And she'll never be just something.
A terrible thing.
She is a muse and has loved me as such.
Just enough.