I don’t want to write for you.
I want to write for me. For mine.
I don’t want to lose mine. Me.
But I’m loving becoming us. Becoming we.
I don’t want you to be my muse.
Muses are fickle things. You and I endure.
I don’t want you to be my inspiration.
Inspiration is fleeting; once caught, lost.
I don’t want to capture you in words.
You transcend my vocabulary. My thesaurus of thought and feeling.