Bemused

My fingers close around the remote. One finger starts…And before I reach the on button, it happens.
Her voice is in my ear.

Thick as honey, she begins…

I have better things to do than to bow to the whims of the likes of you, I say.
I hear the tinkle of her laughter. Her whispered giggle. At my faux verse.

I click the remote. Nothing happens.

I don’t want to write now. I’m distracting myself, see.
Yes I have the notepad out. And the pen too.
But that’s only if I see a scene that might be interesting. Or inspirational. 
Just let me do this my way for a change.

But she’s no longer whispering. Her voice in my head is insistent persistent.
The golden glow…

I stand up, clench my fists and shake them at her.
You’re sending me cliches, I say. Now shove off and leave me be.

…of the heart shaped sunset.

Better I say. But wrong. So so wrong.

Erato, muse of poetry, I entreaty, please stop.

Sunsets come in all colours and flavours.Red, purple, yellow,strawberry but not vanilla, I continue.

And they’re not heart shaped. Only if you squint I guess.

I sigh, put the remote down and pick up the pen.

Not again, I muse (pun intended). Yet again, I’ve been lured into an argument only answered in poetry.

“The delicate perfume of the soft and doughy flowers…”

Not sublime verse. I won’t be sued for plagiarism I suppose.

Who would write rubbish like that? Me. And with that I call it quits.

I’m not playing this game anymore, I say.  Silence is her reply.

Besides her perfume is redolent and invisibly misty not delicate and breakable like cheap…well stolen scents. But she would be unique, so therefore it would be an unstolen scent. And it was with her before she left.

Not again. I stop myself.  The muse is messing my mind now. And all because I reached for the remote.

And now this raging boiling sensation needs to be expunged.

Expunged? What sort of a word is that? Ex sponged?

Otherwise, if I’m un-expunged, I won’t be able to sleep or eat or talk: like someone in love whose only
release is in words. So I have to write. Eventually. But not it seems on my terms.

But no-one knows about her but me. And the muse.

How about I free my sensation as words, I concede. Now Ms Muse leave me alone. For now. Until the next time, when her razor-sharp insight overcomes mine. Almost made poetry there.

Still silent now.

I stop and wait. No interruptions. And then the pen beckons.

“Silent and still. I squinted at the sunset: my vision heart-shaped.”
“Silent and still, her invisibly misty perfume, redolent an unstolen scent.”

And I am writing to her at last.

After that, all that was left in me leapt to the blank page.
Only the muse knew what I wrote. My lost love will never know.

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