I watch her lie on the bed; her black hair on the pillows like spilled ink. The smoothness of her belly, the curve of her hips, the exquisite beauty of her body. She was one who opened up her body for me, but never her soul. Not giving me the one thing that I craved the most from her.
I watch her silently, as she smiles in her sleep. I'm filled with a pang. I have no way of knowing if it is me that she's dreaming about. No doubt, the question would be brushed aside by her, among the many unanswered ones in my life.
I step outside onto my balcony; the morning dew kissing my naked feet and watch a world that's still asleep. One that will soon stir awake and it would be a rat race all over again. But for now, it is just me and my thoughts. Thoughts that are filled with memories and longings. Of things that were and that will never be.
My mind rushes back in time to bring me another memory. Of another woman. One who had given me her body and soul. She was my muse, the reason behind all that I created. I had taken from her, for my art and soul. Maybe it was my selfishness or maybe it was that she got tired of waiting around, of being placed second always. And she had left, not leaving a trace.
I walk back inside, pick up my shirt that lies draped on the back of her chair. Not waking her, I walk out from her life. I pause near the doorway as an afterthought. A second glance. Something in me awakens. I walk out from her life and set out home, for my first love. My passion. The one thing I was born to do. To create beautiful art.