I had a muse once.
It was a six foot tall “him."
For two years we roamed the city.
Brother and sister, shoulder to shoulder.
Riding the various highs we explored the world.
He sometimes complained Salem was too boring
as his fingers twisted up the volume on his stereo.
Yet we always found ways to pass the time.
I watched him on every outing.
Memorizing the way his arms arced with speech
and the way his smile would hang from a hinge
slightly lopsided and askew.
I would’ve fled, bled beside him.
We were partners in crime.
Inseparable.
I saw him every day
in body and writing.
When our fallout happened it felt like
I had lost another brother.
Now all I have is a dusty muse.