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a prequel

you have an air of October and the face of spring,
the smell of summer sticks like smooth caramel on your skin and you’re like an open book with flowers on every page,
everything untouched yet revealing as you trick the world into thinking they know everything about you whilst the truth is kept for only a privileged few
who are determined to see through your facade and the clothes you wear and the way you laugh at boys who aren’t funny
but you think are charming,
and you smile at them like they have something interesting to say when really you are the interesting one,
the girl who is always the muse,
his, hers, mine,
the girl who is loved by girls and by men
but cannot love back,
her heart does not allow it.
how I wish the touch of her fingers on my skin meant more than lust fueled by the desire to make art
with two bodies,
to her everything is art, and to be art is to be her everything,
she keeps me warm in the autumn, but is gone by the spring
as the cool April air sends her to big and better things,
I tried to read her pages yet April brings showers
and the thunder in my heart and the rain on the ink,
consumed everything we once had and washed away what I thought I knew
about her, and about us,
and even though I know the thought of being my muse amuses her,
I still analyse her like a painting,
in the V&A,
on those cold October days.



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