He wants to write about how he would push you against the wall, press you against the wall, hold you by your shoulders, feel your breath on his skin. Intimidating. But, he can’t. He can’t write about it because he can’t push you against the wall. He would love to. But, the rage within him just wouldn’t metamorphose into hatred. Would he ever push you against the wall? If not to hurt you? Toes. Do you remember the last time he did? Do you remember how he left you reaching out for more, holding on to your pounding heart? Do you think he would want to write about that? He would not. Not anymore. A lot of bile now simmers under that bridge. The bridge is in flames. Charred. His insides are scorched. Would you claim the same for his soul? Soul. Do you think he would want to write about that? Would you try to hold on to the curtains when he brings you down? Would the rings hold? Rings. Not the ones that adorn your fingers like dismembered limbs after an ignoble war. Do you think he would want to write about that? He might want to write about it. The prints that your feet leave on his rug, the outline of your head on his pillow, a puddle of your scent on his sheets. Branded into the flesh of his reminiscence. Searing. Do you think he would want to write about that?
Would you be his muse one final time? This is not a love song.