the absent muse

A phone call in the black of night.
The ringing shatters the empty spaces coated with glass.
An estranged voice on the opposite end.
The receiver in my shaking hand.
Dusty cobwebs diffusing in my weary head.
"But she is next to me. How can this be?" I respond.
Under blankets her shadow rises - then falls. The motion of breathing.
The oxygen.
The carbon dioxide.
Colorless.
Tasteless.
I'm still for a moment then slowly and carefully place the phone's receiver on its cradle and gaze upon the blankets and shadow and wonder what this means.
Who are we?
What are we doing, Love?
Does any of this mean anything?
I light a cigarette and ponder the sleeping muse.
Under thin sheets of skin her eyes rest. What have they seen? Can those visions be matched by what her heart has felt? No. Long after the faces have been erased and replaced the remnants of their actions remain restless in her heart - forever.
O, Love, please do not forget my face and I will float harmlessly in your heart like plastic fluff swimming in a snow globe. You are a painted figurine trapped in a world of rusted monuments and failed men; I wish not to be among those dying structures. I wish to be alive and be with you, trapped in this globe of incalculable equations and artificial precipitation. The plastic pieces of heaven are floating and falling all around us.
O, Muse, the silence of your breathing shadow softly glows like the city lights in a midnight drizzle and I'm left helpless at the sight. The lamps reach into the halos of the heavens; out of my reach and beyond my grasp and your scent is so sweet and I sit here spoiling in your presence. Helpless, so helpless...Won't you open and unfold your pristine petals so that I may catch a glimpse of your flawed beauty? An effortless attempt that shakes the sky open and sends drops of nectar to the earth. A surface aching for something pure and sweet and harmonious and you could break something; crack a face coated with dust and time; seal the wound with lips of silk, wet.
You are a source of unknown illumination and I am a fluttering moth pursuing in vain. In vain? Is this all in vain, Love?
Who are we?
What are we doing?
Do these crashes in the night mean anything?
A phone call in the black of night.
The ringing shatters the empty spaces coated with glass and smoke.
An estranged silence on the opposite end.
"But she isn't here. Where is she?" I respond.
Under blankets a shadow rises - then falls. The motion of a ghost, breathing.
Colorless.
Tasteless.
Her silent ghost - she's everywhere.

mc