Stories

When you became my muse, an intimate relationship was bound from my words to your actions. Binding us closer to each other.  Cathartic relief is released from the sinews of my muscles and small air pockets between the tendons in my spine.

But,

You do not know.

You know none of this.

No.

However, I do.

I

Know.

And it is enough.

So we are bound.  Like in a tale told in ancient carpets-

they are stories, you know? Stories.  Like how they met and who was courting whom.  The people, setting, season, and costumes of the golden years: a forgotten time remembered in pictures, silk and wool.
Who is the proprietor of the stories: the child sewing each strand or the keeper of the carpets?