Dear Muse

Dear Muse, I’m thinking in poetry this morning, daydreaming, running late, missing exits, thinking about you, my muse.

I stare at your photos on my feed, look for a new one, glimpse into your curated world, color palette perfect, without flaw, seamless, as if you live, a character, in costume, on a movie set.

And I wish I were you.

Face beautiful, time hasn’t yet marred your cheeks. Body, well… even high waisted, wide legged pants seem perfect on your twiggy frame. 

You are clad in capsule wardrobe, linen and leather and wide brimmed hat, eco and green and sustainable too,  made in the USA by artisans or fair trade, the work of women somewhere in the third world.

You clutch a frothy cup of coffee, manicured rose-gold ringed fingers, graceful. #Blessed #Simpleliving

Golden afternoon glows on rustic wood, macrame, tribal rugs, photo of cactus. So accidental, so casual, so easy. You didn’t plan this photo, you just fell into it, found it on your phone. A whim. 

And I wish I lived in your image, no plastic legos scattered across my floor, no neon green chip clips in my junk drawer, no outfits in my closet that never look quite right.

If I could only step into your cognac leather clog shoes… Are your insides perfect too?

Or do you edit out the shadows, the things that don’t fit or make sense?

Dear Muse, I hate you too. The way you make me feel my life, my boring, mis-matched, plastic filled, worn down life, is somehow not enough. The way you make me think I could be, should be, more.

If only I wore the right shoes.

If only I were drinking matcha from pottery hand glazed by some artist in Joshua Tree.

 

if only my hair, artfully tousled, messy, yet styled, fell down over one eye.

 

If only my selfies turned out right, maybe I might...

Dear Muse, please stop making me wish I weren’t me.