He leans in, gazing deeply into screen as if it's a crystal ball that recites his future. I want to tell him so badly that the folded, creased and yellowed pages in his lap are good, too. He thinks that all of his best work was lost when his computer crashed. I want to tell him that his best work is yet to come, but that might be insulting, somewhat.
And now I read his work, and I'm constantly looking for myself in it, even though I know that the act is incredibly arrogant. I can't help it. I love it too much. I just want to be a part of it.
And then it hit me, like a knock to the jaw from Fernando Vargas; I went to the mat with inspiration. So, ladies and gentlemen, my virgin voyage into the waters of poetry:
I want to be your muse
and you be my lover
I want to be the reason
you dash to your desk
to record your next masterpiece.
I want to inspire you
and when we make love
I want you to think of the magnificence
of the Great Wall
or the complexity of both.
I want you to see my body
and desire it
and want nothing but to get drunk
on the touch of my bare skin.
There you have it, folks. I hope you weren't expecting a murder of words in iambic pentameter. Something about red roses and violets being blue? I scrawled in in my steno last night while I was knitting and he was working with his own words in front of the neon screen. All I could see was his back as he pecked at the keys with one or two fingers. His chestnut hair set on his shoulders in waves as the curvature of his body shone as the jersey of his t-shirt draped down from his shoulders.
I wonder if he made any changes as he was transposing the text from the yellowed pages in his lap to the illuminated screen... I wonder if there are things that he modified in order to fill a time gap, to make them seem more applicable today, or yesterday, for that matter.