You asked me when you’d be my muse.
You asked it laughingly, playfully.
My injured pride kept me silent. The lump in my throat held me back.
Can’t you see? All I create; all my words, whether they be written on paper, or scored into the crevices of my heart. Every letter. They are all yours.
“Oh, my dear, of course I love him. But I am a writer and he is my muse. We are not meant to be together, I am simply meant to admire him.”
– Amelia Jones