the muse that changed a hopeless romantic into a puppet

“I thought you hated him…”

“A writer never hates her muse.”

“So… you still think about him all the time?”

“No,   not   during   the   day.

And anyway, it’s different, I’m indifferent now,
people don’t matter to me the way  they did
— before I knew him.
He changed me. He taught me.
He took my heart and replaced the empty slot with a cold rock.
Pain that was ache,   is now numb.
Love that was flowing, has stalled.
Beats that skipped, now swirl in circles —never amounting to any height.
It’s strange, yet  easy.  I like the non-feeling of it all.

And sometimes in my dreams
I miss him…
then wake to find I feel nothing at all.
It’s simple. Like a cube of ice melting when you grab it with a warm hand.
It’s logical, the way that  1+1 = 2.
There’s no guessing. No substracting. It’s just there— always.
It feels right, like green tea and chocolate, like brainless kissing.”

“You’ve never kissed brainless…”

“Yes   I   have…”

“When?”

“It just happened, I can’t explain.”

“You’re a liar.”

“No,  I’m  a  writer.”

“Ha, goodnight!”

“Goodnight.”

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