He was a wonderful artist. A story teller. When he spun his magic, no one could remain unaffected. Under his blazing sun, she all but remained over shadowed. She had gentle ways, she did. And she never begrudged him his sun. She was content to rest in the welcoming shade.
But she was always there for him. To listen, to correct, to advise, to hold his arms, pick up his clothes and plates behind. To make sure he eats, he sleeps. You get the point right ? And he took all of it as his due. She loved him yes. But she wished for once he would notice her, for all that she did.
She kept the home fires burning. Literally and figuratively while he traversed through the land of fantasies. He talked about emotions, alive and raging, of gentle murmers and whispers, of sighs and nudges. And yet, or may be because of it, he never understood them in real life.
She wished for once, just once, for him to notice her. Really notice her. With no dreamy eyes, with complete awareness. She wished she could be more than just an audience, she wished she could be in his fantasies!
Alas, her wish was never fulfilled while she was alive. There were just too many ideas waiting to be spun into intricate stories.
And then it happened. She died.
He couldn’t write anymore. For you see, all his stories were for her, of her in many different nuances. When the muse died, the art decided to abandon him to his grief.
If only she knew, it was her, always her, that lived in his fantasy!