To the Gemini muse that I’ve written to for 5 years,
You’re undoubtedly still quite the charming man, incessantly inspiring my empty head to leak words I was too shy to admit. Because of you, many have called me a writer, when both you and I know that I am far off from that noble title.
I’ve written so much to the point that I wanted my words to come alive, and not just fabricate our make-believe rendezvous. I wanted all to be real; I wanted you here, in flesh and bones, to show everyone that this immaculate human is a kind, living, breathing thing.
I’ve dived into supernal worlds of what ifs, and you ceased to become just a writing aid; my love, I urged for you with haste, but what haste is that if it’s been five years, and not a shard of a word moved a cell in you.
Come and run your fingers through the endless pages of my pleas; oh how desperate I was, filling up journals and journals just imploring you to find me. I counted the days, ah so gullible; I’ve begged the earth to rewrite its fate for I swear you were meant for me.
Five years, you insensitive human. Five years and what they’d compliment on, thinking it’s just a heart dump is actual frantic calls, yet I would not lie, I’d still bust this spacious heart open and write until your unresponsive organ feels bad for me.
But until then, I’d like to inform you that I have found a new muse, and your services are not needed. (But God knows I would still rush into your arms lest you came).