Muse,
I thought you were perfect. I really honestly did, right off the bat. I don't, anymore. Now I can see that you're human too, and I think I like you better this way.
But you still seem so put together. You still know what you're doing and what you want to do and how to get there, you seem to have everything figured out. The bottom line seems to be that you know what you're doing, and like the cold or the pain, it's something definite. You, as well as anyone, know how much I like definite things. You know how much I love freezing until I can't feel my fingertips, even if you don't understand why. And you'll even freeze with me, all the time, without fail. (That's not a smart thing to do, you know.)
Now let's not get definite and predictable mixed up; because you're certainly an unpredictable sort of person. But when it comes to the important things, I know I can depend on your security. Granted, it hasn't been that long that we've even been friends, but somehow... I believe that you're not going anywhere. I really believe it, even though it can't possibly be true. Everything falls through, but perhaps... perhaps it won't be you.
You don't even need to be perfect, it seems, to make me smile.
Carrillo.
YOU ARE READING
muse
Non-FictionPre-love and post-trauma, a collection of letters dedicated to the one and only captain of this sheet metal ship, K.G. Non Fiction: #111 Short Story: #283 © Papyruspoet 2014.
