Muse

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see a still, blond head and a still, wide nose. I see small, still teeth and a still, open mouth. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see still, perfect eyelids and still, lanky legs and long, still fingers. All completely still. Because sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see this boy lying on cold stone, dead.

I remember his fingers, far back in my memory, pressing brass buttons on a golden horn, round, melodic notes floating in the air. I remember that stupid smirk and kind, almond eyes, but I don’t remember him lying on cold stone, dead. So why is it that, when I close my eyes, I see him lying on that hateful stone, dead. Why do I not see his passion while he plays the horn or the careful way he spoke to the masses of the assembly hall? Why is it not his achievements and his joys that I think of when I think of him? Why is it I always think of how he was dying?

And now, when I close my eyes, I see him lying on cold stone, dead. Because it was not his ambitions that inspired me, nor was it his commitment and friendship. It was the fact that he was doomed to die young, condemned to a heaven I don’t believe in, before he conquered the world. That is what inspired me. Because it never mattered to me what he achieved. It was the fear of death that drove me, and what still drives me now. That still, pale throat, and that still, bony chest. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see him lying on cold stone, dead. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see myself.