When the music stopped 

When you were gone, some part of me parted with you, leaving a heavy weight upon my chest, pinning me to the bed for days. I didn’t notice at first, but I would never have imagined the answer slapped my face as soon as I took the first steps out of the room. 

The music, the melodies that always danced in my head. They are gone now. I froze, grasping at the door frame. Where is the music? 

It’s said muscle memory is the secret behind artists. But my hands petrified against the strings of my fiddle; instead, they longed for your snowy skin. 

You took away the rest of my senses, too: my ears remembered the chords of your voice, and my eyes refused to forget your raven locks rocked by the noon breeze–that also brought me sweet hints of your scent. 

For weeks, all of my questions were answered by failure. For the first time, I tasted what it was like to be a fool, one of these decrepit artists yearning for their muses; some falling in love with such beautiful creatures. Pitiful. 

Now I am a prisoner who lost count of how many times I called for you in my mind once my voice was gone. Still, you won’t hear me. Do you? 

And perhaps that was for the best. How would you react to seeing me like this? So exposed, fragile, and lacking any art within. Would you still recognise me if you looked into my eyes? Could you be disgusted? Could I endure it? 

Throughout my captivity, I fully realised… Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t show up to aid me. Suppose there is the slightest possibility that you still love me. In that case, I don’t want to see your hoarfrost eyes. My captor hasn’t found any torture comparable to the pain of seeing your broken expression filled with a deep feeling of agony that poets should envy.

Oh, my dear muse… How long has passed since I met your golden gaze in the morning? How did it taste like the last tea we shared?

…When I exhale my last breath, will you remember me?