I wrote this awhile ago, but it's the best thing I think I have written. It's an extended metaphor for the phases of life/love in conjunction with the passing of a year.
It's called Reawakening, and I'm always looking to edit it and fix problems, so be honest.
"Boredom is my muse," she giggled as we sat on her driveway, sketching the newly purchased hydrangeas and petunias waiting patiently to be planted. Colored pencils mixed into otherworldly plants with hues that only she could imagine while my paper turned to a tangled mess of weeds. She always did that. Created gorgeous from pretty as she continued to blossom herself. Sitting on the pavement as it continued to grow warmer and warmer, I couldn't help but notice how the wind would toss her hair and skirt as her limbs and torso lengthened. The black concrete began to burn, but I simply sat and watched in my awkward glory.
"Boredom is my muse," she drawled during those long summer afternoons that we spent lying in the grass. She always spoke that way, aware of some great universe that I could never see. I would reach out to touch her stars and gaze at her galaxies, but they remained hidden and distant despite my probing thoughts. She was the light, and I was the shadow. I could only watch her, helpless to her radiance as she kept me in her thrall. She would walk, and I would melt. She would sit, and I would freeze. A second of her smile or a movement of her mouth or a stammer in her speech or a trip in her tongue or a lick of her lips or a tensing of her teeth, and I was lost in her. Her hair was honey while mine was sand. Her eyes were chocolate and mine bronze. Her skin was sugar, and I was starved. She was all that could quench my stationary hunger. I would trace the freckles on her stomach and back as we formed constellations with her body in the grass. I would melt in the sun, but she couldn't caramelize.
"Boredom is my muse," she said when I sauntered home during those nights when I couldn't really decide whether I needed a jacket or not. I would just smile and nod, glancing at the gardenias that continued to adorn the walls despite her current suspension from what she had known to be an escape. I always hated this time of year, the clouds obscuring the fluorescent beams that usually lit the shadows I constantly hid behind. As we lie on the bed of down, I thought about what possibilities tomorrow might bring, and my thoughts trailed off. I slept as she combed through her honey and thought about galaxies long since dreamt into existence.
"Boredom is my muse," she says as we sit in chairs out on the front porch, and I smile knowing full well that she must be thriving despite the biting cold. I stare at the thick blanket that covers the driveway that once burned my impressionable young legs. Although languid, I do notice that she stands slowly and moves toward the door, preparing to rest. It is in these fleeting moments as I watch the honey tumbling down her back and falling to her freckles that I am reminded of how much I long to help her stretch her stems and reawaken her buds once more and sit in awe as she spends her built up inspiration.
