Arron

‘A Muse owes nothing to mortal poets. Even the good ones.’
I fancy that she still means me. Her steps wade through ripped paper, a fresh grave of words nudging around her ankles, but it’s her favourite kind of chaos. It’s a mess we’ve made together, more than once.
‘I never claimed to be a favourite.’
‘Then what I have been hearing?’
‘Praise, only.’ I raise my hands, though her eyes refuse to come to me. ‘Credit, where credit’s due.’
She stops by carved wood: spindles of polished oak, holding a nest of blankets.
‘I will take it. This once.’ A glance past her shoulder has me, bound. Warned.
‘Never again.' I'd swear anything to keep her with me. To stay here, watching, as she leans in towards the crib.

Lights flicker as she reaches for our daughter, flames catching with her contented sigh. The baby stirs at her touch and has us smiling.
‘Honest men don’t make good writers,’ she reflects.
‘You’ve told me that, before.’
Maybe she minds the memory, but her hair is clutched by insistent fingers. I’m soon forgotten, my desk and its low-burned candles abandoned for hazel eyes. Drowned out by the chirrup of a new heart, beating.
When they are settled, I raise my pen. I find dams broken and the words pour, steeping my page until it’s sodden.

My cheeks are wet with relief.

I had wagered, and won, with forces greater than the Muses. For worship to fill a thousand sonnets, mysteries a lifetime couldn’t solve.
She owes me nothing. Yet, here she is, and I’m back in a love all-consuming. A fresh yearning. A devotion, I couldn’t sunder.
A lie big enough to make a poet, great.