Marrying the Muse

A revision of Better as a Muse.

The half-hour shower–a refuge
from the grease of moonlight work
and the hours wasted on her.
I’d drown my aches beneath this rain
all day, but her debts demand to be paid
and it’s way past midnight.

Out of the shower and into the steam
chilled with the breeze whispering
through the moldy window she hasn’t cleaned.
The fog conceals nothing; everything
in the dirty towel hamper is mine,
and her toothbrush is still dry.

She’s already in bed with an arm
around my phantom shape, a smile
sculpted on her face like those
I had when I embraced her phantom touch
in my lame high school poetry,
dressing her in jewels and royalty.

Her eyes are not emeralds, but definitely stoned,
her hair is a crown, but the gold has chipped off,
her voice is a violin that hasn’t been tuned,
her face was my sun, but now it’s the moon.
Even her majestic peaks lose luster once scaled-
She’s flat without all the symbolism.

Dull eyes open, catch my stare.
“Whatcha doing?” she asks.
“Just admiring your beauty,” I reply.
She leans forward with her lips; I tense
but eventually submit. We shut our eyes,
and I rest in peace in holy matrimony.

Critique

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