And he traces her inner thigh with his lips, eliciting a moan from her as he teases her entrance.
He slides a finger in, pressing deep inside her. She bucks her hips up to meet his knuckle, he growls with feigned arousal. He resurfaces, attacking her mouth, owning her. She surrenders to his tongue, if only to allow nostalgia passage. She rubs herself against him, a mewling kitten in heat, crying harder. She fakes an ****** to satisfy him.

He presses his **** against her and she realises how little she affects him. Determined, he forces himself past her barrier, grunting and growling. He assaults her mouth again and she reacts accordingly, trailing her nails down his back in a futile attempt to rekindle. She is unsure of how this came to be. She fights back tears as she threads her fingers through his hair. She knows she is still and always will be second best. He grows soft.  A tacit agreement. Neither of them finish.

She rolls over to face the television. An old british comedy is on loop, making the same stale jokes that may have been funny a decade ago. And here she is, on repeat, making the same mistakes she made a decade ago.

Let me be your Muse.
I will be your inspiration.
I will ****** you into creativity.
I will give you everything.
And give you nothing.
I will lure you to your doom.
Lust after your insanity.
Revel in your demise.
Come pet.
Relinquish your soul.
I will reside in your mind.
Whisper with your tongue.
Breathe with your lungs.
And you will die brilliant.
Let me be your Muse.