i lost my muse,
it faded into shadow and was gone.
alone, it wandered,
'til you came along.
scooping it up,
and planting it, took root.
bad fiction..
He never said "I love you," in the way that it was meant. He walked around it in a dream of things that were best put off,like the things in a jar he never did. He moved the cans of paint, he toiled at his bench. He ignored the last days of summer and growled when she placed a sweater there.
She got used to the things best left unsaid, she waited and then she stopped. She moved on if only in her mind, and cried herself to sleep. She didn't understand that "you're fat!" means I love you, or that grunts were best to be ignored. She stopped caring if he was cold. He stopped wondering where she was. She stopped waiting by the door.
One day they had moved away, and seemed better for it than they were. She forgot why he loved her. He forgot why she stayed. Being used to things and not really trying. The soul wilts on the vine.
One day I asked her why it ended, and all she had to say was that it was like dying before death.
