I've always ever wanted a muse with pickled eyes the color of the dank, polluted snow that haunts the crevices of my city, Brooklyn. I've only ever yearned to touch something bent, but not broken -- like the ligament of your bone. With what breath do I hold from you, but fog, smog , sour pears, and a hint of lague You are the grim beauty to walk the Victorian era Dashing, lashing -- Oscar Wilde couldn't even spout a witty retort. Pink lips that incise like the curve of a scalpel sent Hannibal on his way to salvation and a voice like the cursive handwriting I could never perfect Morose, macabre -- these are the terms to coincide with obsession. In any way, you have always ever been my muse.