Muse
He slumps against the keys. The dissonant clash would wake him, except that he is utterly spent.
His tired mind can’t even be bothered conjuring up a backdrop for his dream. He only knows that he is dreaming, and there is just inky black space. Not a very good dream, then.
Not that she ever needs a backdrop. She never has asetting, not really. She stands apart from her surroundings like she inhabits a different space. She walks towards him, and the inky blackness is forgot.
The way she moves – sauntering, not stepping – and her scent, and the colour of her dress are all wrong. He knows that she never really looks like this. And when she smiles her sad smile at him, with eyebrows raised in bemusement and a far-off look in her eyes, he still imagines her lips to be pinker than they are.
She steps nearer conspirationally, and whispers to him. And though her lips brush against his ear, he hears the words echoed from an immeasurable distance.
“Stop trying to write me.”
He wakes up with a terrible headache, and tries a different chord.
