The air is a petal, hushed and pale,
on wallpaper the shade of sighs,
rose milk & powdered blush, the color
of a thought just beginning. It hangs
over your head right in front of you—
playing a sweet, sad melody, just wide
enough to let a small breeze in & out.
You murmur, well that’s new—
As ideas fill your ears, as you sit and listen,
your words begin to form:
Built from wood the color of faded
parchment, your lines begin to stack like a secret.
You feed them teacups & tulle,
lace curtains & perfumed pillows.
You accept a cup of this summer’s
nectar, feel it slowly
move down your throat.
Then you watch your creation
change. Right then, right there.
It isn’t obvious or groundshaking . . .
just yet. You hear voices as you stand
in the doorway of a memory
crowded with regret & doubt &
Why are they in your house?
But somehow you feel a connection,
a meaning. The verses begin to fit
together like a broken ceramic vase
& the stanzas you’ve created
are authentic, a little stubborn,
& keep you grounded . . .
Because they see all of you—
even the messy parts—
& although your journey is ending,
your life will never be the same,
because you saw the world in this place
& you found your muse.