Like Scheherazade, she weaves her tales, stringing words together as if they are charms, adding stars and rubies and angel wings to each story. He summons her each night and then waits, hungry for her words, words she dangles above him, sprinkles around his pillow, through his hair, into his mouth. He knows what she is and still remains enchanted. He knows her stories cannot exist without him. Yet, each night he wonders if this will be the night she fails to appear, the night the words fail to flow and the story ends with no ending, him waiting for something that doesn’t exist.
It’s night again. He waits, unsure, until an emerald appears, announcing her arrival. He is soothed, knowing, this time, that she is real. And when she breathes her words, he inhales them so deeply he begins to believe them as he drifts into sleep, sated.
[Image: Arabian Nights, Illustration by Kay Nielsen, 1917. Source: http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/01/20/visions-of-the-jinn-arabian-nights-illustrations/]
Such longing.. Is she his muse?
I think he’s her muse.