Her Name is Leanan

My muse, she knows the amount of pores on my body. 

She reflects every thought and feeds on my brain. 

She sees but cannot play. She knows but cannot sing. 

Her image is perfect in my eyes alone. 

Perfect face. Perfect tits. 

I wish she were me. 

She only wants my fingers to write and my throat to sing. 

She wishes so much that it is killing me.

I will never love as I love my muse. 

But I know I’ll get to die soon. 

Oh, but how my lonely muse will die too.