when she was the muse

I wont try to pretend that I was not hurt by the vision of her...

I wont act like the memories of her are only good for inspiring poetry that is best left forgotten...

I wont lie to you and say... she was fat and ugly... and that her smile did not knock me off my feet...

But she was not smiling at me... she may not have even seen me... or felt my presence at all...

I wont tell you that I played it cool and ignored her like she was some one night stand whose name I never cared to learn... she was... in fact... never mine...

I froze... tried to catch my breath before she noticed this fool staring at her... I turned and walked away... remembering her... in her youth...

She was never mine... but my soul... is convinced otherwise...

This is what it felt like when I thought I loved her...

When she was the fire...

When she was the rain...

When she was the winter and the spring...

The desert and the sea...

When she was the dusk and the dawn...

The pleasure and the pain that tormented my heart and my mind...

This is what it felt like... when she was the muse.

Amanda Vasquez
about twenty years ago
some bar in Juarez.