Page 9 of Claiming His Muse

To my delight, she blushes. “Well, yes. But that’s not why I invited you over.”

The sunlight from the kitchen window catches her golden hair, giving her an angelic glow. I want to blurt out how I feel right this second, but I stop myself. I don’t want to rush; besides, she invited me here for a reason. I should hear her out. “So why did you?”

She bites her lip, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve been working on a poem. Now that it’s finally perfect, I wanted to show it to you.”

“I can’t wait to read it.” It’s touching to know that she wants me to be the first to see it. Sharing a new piece of art is always a raw moment. I’m glad she trusts me with it.

“Good,” she says as she starts to walk out of the room. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

When she comes back into the kitchen a few minutes later, she has her little poetry journal in her hands. She stops beside me and flips through the pages quickly. When she finds the one she wants, she smooths out the spine and hands it over.

“So, this is it?”

“Yes,” she confirms. She fiddles with one of her earrings. “I have something I want to say, but this seemed like the easiest way to say it. I was hoping you might understand.”

“Okay,” I say, giving her one last look before turning my attention to the page in front of me.

Is this what other poets talk about

when they talk about love?

Does it put down roots like this

spreading out to fill the container of my body?

What will it look like when it sprouts?

Is not knowing part of the fun?

When it finally breaches the surface, covered in earth and dew,

will he think it’s beautiful?

Or pull it like a weed.

The first thing that hits me is how strikingly beautiful her handwriting is. In that first poem she showed me, her writing was a little sloppy. It looked rushed, like she had to get the words out or else they’d eat her alive.

But with this poem, it’s different. Her writing is neat, deliberate. Each stroke of her pen had purpose. Without even considering the words, I can feel her hesitancy, her vulnerability. It’s striking, like a painting with words.

“So?” Jenny asks, her voice shaking. “What do you think?”

“Jenny, it’s beautiful,” I say, finally looking away from the page. I swallow hard. “Is this for that guy you’ve been interested in?”

She nods.

“Don’t give it to him.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Her face crumples in a frown. “B-But... why not? Is it not good?”

“No, it’s good. It’s perfect. That’s the problem.” I sigh and put the notebook aside. I grab her hand, and she takes a sharp breath. “Jenny, I can’t bear the thought of you saying these words to another man. Ever since I met you, I’ve dreamed of making you mine. And whatever it takes, I swear I’m going to become the man who makes you feel this way.”

She presses a shaking hand to her chest. Her eyes are wet and shiny. Despite that, she starts giggling. I must look as confused as I feel, because she shakes her head and says, “I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Figured what out?”

“I was talking about you,” she says softly. “You’re the guy I’ve been writing poems about.”

“Well now I feel stupid,” I say as I run a hand over my face. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy and embarrassed all at once.

---