I write about you more than anything else.
I have these intense feelings about you.
That insist to be immortalized.
That refuse to be just a thought,
Lost in the depths of a bottomless subconscious.
That refuse to be meaningless.
I think about these feelings and I know it is not love,
Yet I am in feelings with you.
I feel, when you are tired
I feel, when you are happy
I feel, when you are anxious
And I draw on those feelings,
And I paint with my words a pretty masterpiece.
One that you will never see,
Cause you don’t know,
I write so deeply about you.
And like tens of thousands of words,
Each one its own complex set of feelings,
Making sense and no sense at all,
You make me intense,
And I think… you’re my muse.
I write about you more than anyone.
More than anything.
And you still don’t see me.
It’s like if proximity is toxic,
Then distance sure is life.
It’s like everything we experienced together,
It’s like they were dreams,
Formed only to evaporate with the morning mist.
Ready to be forgotten when your sun rose.
And your sun shines.
It is golden misty perfection.
It rises with promises of new.
It glows my existence
Into a memory you don’t even remember.
You deserve the sun.
It sucks to admit but it’s true.
She fits perfectly in the palm of the hands I never held.
She is your equal because you too are a star of epic magnitude.
She holds you down like gravity in space.
And here I am,
Just a writer,
Writing about you.
A little too late for it to matter.
Tracy Eric Writes… Of muses.