Before we got together He had been engaged to his high school sweetheart. It was young love; romantic, intense and it seared and scorched them both from what one can work out. She was in love with a White Knight who wrote her beautiful poetry (He has hidden depths), but was unable to cope with his dark and less than courtly intents. He couldn't ratify the two. Fortunately she made a sensible choice and ended things...
Every once in a while, when cleaning out the odd box of papers (a family of squirrels remember?) we come across some of the poetry. And it is bitter sweet... one gets glimmerings of the beamish boy He once was. Oddly enough He hasn't written poetry since we got together all those years ago. In fact when one asked many years ago why he no longer wrote, He replied that one didn't make him feel that way. It seems being a muse is not one small slave's strength at all...
In fact there is little trace of the White Knight left today. There is no courtly love, little gifts of jewellery or sweets, flowers or candlelit dinners. But then one is hardly a damsel in distress and there is that shocking memory for romantic dates so... it's probably just as well. Otherwise one would be that terrible cliché who has no idea why their partner has run from the room sobbing after an intense period of expectant silence. Actually one has been that partner... sighs bad, bad girl.
Despite these obvious failings as a romantic partner, that we both suffer from, He is very generous with gifts of other kinds...
Why only today did He stroll in, as one was surrounded by drink bottles and tissues, to ask if one would like a set of these.
Yeah, the Dark Knight... champion terroriser of sick and sniffing slaves.
4 comments:
I am a frustrated, wanna be poet. IMO, love poetry is written by dreamers to express an unrealized or longed for ideal. He probably doesn't write poetry for you because you are the ideal realized. He doesn't need to. How he feels about you is immediate and real, so needs no layer of manufactured emotion to buffer it.
That is probably a fair assessment of the situation... That and the angst ridden, beamish boy was far too busy getting His brains banged out, to actually hold a coherent thought long enough to write it down.
As one said... lousy muse :D
Why are you banging his brains? Just askin....
Let's see... He was 25, generously equipped and good in the sack. Oh and He could actually hold a conversation when we came up for air ;)
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