I read everything I wrote from the time I was inside your love. I can no longer write that way. I no longer know how. I recognise so little of that self now.

“You are my muse,” I said grandly, grotesquely, theatrically. Stupidly.
You said muses did nothing but stand there.

If that is true, if that is all there is to it, then I am asking you to stand there for me again. Because this is all I know.

Please, be here.
Let me write.