the silent muse
She knows what the artist wants.
He wants to wander the world painting pretty pictures with his tongue, making pretty women fall in love with him. His wits and his words will get him there, his art will be his compass. But her, his silent muse, she’s the map.
She’s the navigation. She’s the sundial. She’s the sun.
She gives the artist endless inspiration by existing — by choosing to let him make a home from her crevaces, live in her orbit, gather strength and a tan from her sunlight.
By letting him bloom even in the coldest winters, painting him the most magnificent shade of emerald — when he knew that on his own he could only be indigo.
But now, the artist is gone. Creating his art. Painting his pictures. Flicking his tongue. His art as a compass, his silent muse in the back of his head, whispering the way ever so softly he can barely hear it. So softy, he can ignore it.
He has enough of her sunlight stored in his leaves, coursing through his stems, gathered in his roots. He can leave his silent muse. His sunlight muse.
And she remains shining quietly, as to not disturb the artist while he makes his art. Paints his pictures. Flicks his tongue. After all, what would art be if everyone could hear the subject? What would flowers be if we all knew the earth-shattering pain of photosynthesis? What would the ocean be if we could feel the moon’s aching bones?
The artist wants to make his art. Paint his pictures. Flick his tongue. And he wants to make women fall in love with him. And he wants to bask in their sunlight. And create more buds. And make them flourish.
And when it’s all said and done, the artist will come back. An entire garden in tow. A spectacular nursery protruding from each of his limbs. Vines and herbs caressing his face.
And he will pluck each bloom from his head.
And bend down on one knee.
And hand the bouquet to his silent muse.