Painful Inspiration

I thought: simply talk to me; as long as I’m looking into your eyes, the world won’t see me, just as I can’t see it. Spill your sweet legacy over me; encapsulate my dreams in your words: effortlessly. Spin another tale; true or false, right or wrong: let it be born by your mind and whispered through your lips. Your words tickle my ears; a light breeze slicing through summer heat.

I wasn’t comfortable with my feelings; not entirely. I feared what you could do to me: for, when you were gone I’d miss you and, whilst the silky sensation that occurred in my stomach when you graced my mind pleased me, it also reminded me of all I suddenly had to lose.

Now I know my disquiet was intuition. The apprehension I felt proved to be born of something far more real than paranoia or a manifestation of anxiety. I always knew you were no good (was that not after all the appeal?).

I wished for inspiration: without you these words, displayed as they are on this blanket of otherwise white, would not exist. You made my wishes come true. For that, I am thankful.