Muse

A lover of words, I had been looking for the writer in every crowd.
You can keep your mundane conversation and political views, I wanted to hear him describe love like it was the cure to everything we'd been cursed with.
I wanted to live his life, well actually, I wanted to live it the way he wrote it.
Life was a lot more exciting the way he saw it.
I wanted to see the beauty in everything, in pain and sadness. Maybe I just liked how wonderful it sounded, felt like I was missing out.
I wanted him to love me like he loved those pages full of words.
The trouble with loving a poet, they're always looking for something to write about.
Guess I just became someone for you to write about. Another brick in your wall, but we were all painted different shades of the same blue.
Maybe that's what I wanted all along. Maybe I was looking to be your muse.
Maybe this was my way of feeling the heartbreak you wrote about. It doesn't feel as euphoric as you described.
Maybe I was looking for my own muse, someone to break my heart so I could write about it.
That's what I'll tell myself anyway,
as I write this about you.

                                            -- Ananya Murali