𝗧𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀.

Muse

You drew him, and he was all you could draw. You tried other friends, acquaintances, and strangers, but your page remains with one figure and countless meaningless doodles scattered through the page to take up space. A soft lull flowed from your headphones to your veins and intertwined with your feelings. It felt strange and unnamed.

You knew who this figure was and he knew you, but it wasn't proper for him to see it. But you wished he could and would, because it's two in the morning and your eyes and heart are heavy, and he's all you could ever commit to on the paper, his facial structure being just right and eyes just ordinary. You wish he weren't all you could draw.

You weren't the only artist, and you already had a muse. But you're the wrong artist, with the wrong muse, and nothing makes sense to you, it's five minutes past two in the morning and strange and unnamed feelings are pulling at your chest.

You close the sketchbook softly and... This sketch remains on the shelves, a drawing unseen, as that is the proper way.

Your eyes and heart are heavy.