little narrow house part 2.

I am still a catalyst for self-improvement,
or at least self-acknowledgement,
to face the things they want to be,
and can be for me,
then mourn in silence for fear of pretending.
You are your habits.
Let me hold you, habitually,
then watch you break free.
Bittersweet.
It’s still the muse that suffers between masterpieces.
She ushers them into her heart,
her artistry and wit beckoning,
knowing it is fragile,
knowing she is as afraid as he.
A martyr of music, paintbrushes and sunlit laughter,
knowing these days are numbered.
Living them fully, nonetheless,
loving him entirely, nonetheless,
and when they hide from expectations, broken promises,
after giving their lives purpose,
she nods understandingly, nonetheless.
I still sit on my staircase,
waiting for the next wandering lost,
blowing kisses,
to he who just waved goodbye,
and watching him march on.

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