Muse

I will write you in every story I can.
In every way I know.
For as long as I have words left.

Sometimes, you might be the heroine.
Sometimes, just a stranger passing through the lines.
Sometimes, you will not be there at all,
yet every sentence will belong to you.

In one story, I might compare you to a rose.
In another, I will borrow a tiny detail about you and use it.
Your birthday will appear as a random number no one notices.
Or have a character say something only you would have said.

Because to keep writing you,
Is in some small selfish way,
To keep you alive.

For my memory is fragile.
But stories are stubborn things.
They refuse to let go.

I build paper worlds,
Where you exist on the pages,
And I can visit you whenever I want to.

Long after I have forgotten the sound of your voice,
I will still remember how to write your name.