I wish that I could fall in love with a female, for she would make a far better muse than the gruff sailors and musicians and drunks and men in general that I am inclined to crave.
to write about a painted pout or skin that brushes against your own like nylon, sunlight shining through the window onto a Cupid's bow and dancing down to a delicate clavicle, or black eyelashes that bat and blink remorse into your cavernous heart, to muse over such aesthetic delights, would be ecstasy for my poetess heart.
I linger, staring, at beautiful women, androgynous women, delicate, feline women, stringing words together in my head over long legs and hair that flutters like silk, and they think I'm crazy or in love with them. well, maybe I am crazy, but I crawl into bed each night with my snarling, gleaming, mahogany gentleman, and I love him madly, my rugged muse.