Muse

You have stolen my ability to write. You distract me with a gravity I cannot resist. You are deep and smart and so three dimensional. Your croutons of conversation are a salad of intricate thoughts and crunchy metaphors begging to be examined. Every time you speak to me I want to write a fucking book about you. I could go on forever. You have stolen my ability to write, in every sense of the phrase. You have stolen my words. My autonomy, it is gone, I know it is. Yet I keep writing, I fear ill forget how to. Only, impossibly, I can write about nothing but you.

Ive given myself to the stones, all I want to read is the stones.