Tainted Love

Slowly, her lips curve into a wicked grin. Her icy eyes begin to sparkle with mischief. She stands and takes a step forward as if to move toward me. Then, in a swirl of air, she is gone. Nothing left of her but cruel laughter and mist.

My Muse has abandoned me again.

We all have a special relationship with that illusive entity we call Muse. For some of us, Muse is nothing more than a bright idea that falls upon our heads as our fingers touch the keyboard. But for others of us, Muse is a friend, a lover, or a cruel Mistress. As varied and numerous as our writing styles can be, our relationships with our Muses run that same gamut. Some warm and comforting and others complicated and strained.

Some of us find that our Muses are easy-going. They share our afternoon coffee and whisper sweet nothings to us as we drift off to sleep. Some Muses are abrasive, determined to drill an idea into your head until you finally submit and write as you're told.

But then there is my Muse.

She is beautiful, but she is cold. More illusive and harder to hold than the sent of honeysuckle on a summer breeze. She is dark and bold and cruel.

My Muse does not whisper kindly to me of all the things I might do or say or create. She does not badger me to translate her ideas into print. She doesn't speak to me at all. She is aloof. She is neglectful. Detached. She clings to far away shadows, watching me and taking joy in all my flailing attempts at art. She keeps her distance and laughs at my failures.

Even so, we have our moments... Try as she might, she cannot hide herself from me completely. Once in a great while I catch the scent of her perfume from somewhere just behind me. Sometimes I hear the music of her unabashed, unselfconscious laughter. The sweet laughter, the joyful laughter. Laughter no longer tinged with malice and spite. And sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I see the curve of a kind, loving smile.

She never intends for me to notice these things. She thinks I will not realize how close she is. But I see her. I feel her. And those are the moments I live for.

I love my Muse. Though she is wicked and callous, I have hope that she will one day give up her games and come to me. That she will lean close and speak to me, her warm, soft breath dancing across my ear as she wraps me in her embrace. My biggest challenge in life is having patience enough to wait for her.