Oh my muses, darling. They are merry tonight.
They sing to me. Intoxicating. Like honey on my tongue.
Apollo’s lyre in my ears, his sunshine on my skin.
Ahh, if you could only hear them. So cloying, so sweet. So
I can’t do them justice. Not to you. Not to anyone.
I hardly even know myself.
They’re enough to make a woman sick.
I try to tell you. I always have, but you could never hear.
You had no ears to hear me, no eyes to see me.
If you could only hear the words, my darling.
If you could only hear my muses so merry.
You would understand.
But all I have are my clumsy fakes, wanton forgeries.
Shadows thrown onto the wall behind us.
The barest reflection of the truth.
All I have to give you is so inelegant, so
I wonder, did I make you understand? I fancy I saw
Some of it in you. A lantern-glimmer, a spark in the hay,
Before there was nothing.
Ahh, darling. My muses. They were so merry. So sweet.
And I am so jagged.
by Thomas Boyle
(prompts: Merry Muses / Jagged / Now You’re Gone)