She is the kind of lady, no matter the day or the type of malady that succumbed those fickle chambers of your created being, she’ll sew it back intact with her soul for strings, and breath her heavenly kiss on your lips, and you’ll feel complete like Adam down at creation’s first glimpse. 

I still talk about her, like it was just yesterday, when I still held her in my arms. Like just yesterday, she was still mine. 

Only then, reality’s wits wakes me up from my stupor, as I stagger whimsically back to years down the line. It’s been years my friends, since she ceased to be mine. Now I know, now I do… That forever she’ll be my muse! The only unending being, revoking to evacuate the serene space she’s engraved in my mind. 

A deity she is, if only, I held on when she was mine. What’s wrong with me! Never did I fathom the delicate soul whisking her heart onto my then blind eyes. Only to wake up too late, when she tip toed while tipsy I was, with whisky shots for delusions. 

She’s a seamstress. A seamstress seaming hearts with strings from her soul. Such rare beauty. The only of a kind, the one – to tell tales of, for generations. 

My muse, the one I’m bemused by, for eons to come. Sacred to me like a shrine of divine marvel

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