Why do writers waste so much paper? I asked you that once. You laughed as you pulled me into your lap. You answered me in hushed tones, whispers that spoke of mistakes you must make to come up with something beautiful, of things you must waste to find a jewel.
Am I a scratch paper? I asked. You held my face then kissed my forehead, then my nose, then my lips. No, you aren’t. You are my muse.