My muse is a young girl, about fifteen years old, with light green eyes that sparkle with laughter, though underneath that lies shadows from years gone by. She dances gracefully, as words sprout where her delicate feet touch the pages. My muse is a soft spoken voice, one whose joy over-writes the years of heartache.
She tells stories as sweet as a newborns smile, yet begs me to write them not, least young ones become convinced such a story could hold true. Then she paints a picture, dancing to the tune of some forgotten song, one whose very sound grows darker as the night dims.
My muse is nothing more than a photo of a small baby in a tutu, safe in the arms of my younger self. My muse is the child who never saw her first year of life, so she is how i picture her, graceful just like her name. Free, something she never was during her short life.
The light that sparkle in her eyes is the same light that sparkled in the only picture of her I own, the shine of childlike innocence, something I wanted her to keep, because I knew in life she never would have been able to.
My muse is the soft whisper in the wind, the childlike laughter, as I watch her dance away. She never comes when I call, but is there when I need her most, ready to dance across the page, her dance mirroring the strokes of my pen, her footsteps matching the location of keys on an imaginary keyboard. Her soft voice speaks the words, urging me to tell the story that needs be told, until the time draws when I lose myself in the world of words, when she slowly dances away.
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