I didn't quite realize what a muse felt like, until I met her.
I saw what wanting all but wanting nothing looks like bottled up in a person.
I saw a woman that no one truly knows.
Maybe not even herself.
Maybe that is exactly what makes her a muse to so many.
I couldn't possibly be the only one.
My love letters to Syra would in theory be full of words.
But in essence, the contrary.
My love letters would be from her, to her.
To remind her to feel all that is genuine and all that is dire.
To remind her that letting go and feeling it all.
Is in fact, quite alright.
But Syra knows this, you see.
After all, all I know is what she has laid out for me to see.
