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Oh, to dedicate a single work to you, when you, my muse, consume my entire waking mind.
What good would it be to invoke Calliope, stringer of stories storied beyond mortal minds? When we are a small fire burning bright, imperfect and indeterminate yet a blaze nonetheless turning.
What could Clio do for me, to tell of history, when the present is full of you? Your gift to me, the presence you bring, utterly inundating my waking moments and making me long for time to recount you just as I would. Beautiful, smart, considerate, temperant, and loved.
Even faith brings me short, Polyhymnia, for no holy place bears the weight of my soul as well as she can. I cannot invoke you, less it diminish the temple that is her shape where I would worship, on weary knee, until the heavens failed to loom.
And of songs, Euterpe, could you even sing one to rival? Her voice brings me like a rat to river, where she too is the current to carry me down. And were it not even charming a tune, I'd follow along just as entranced, for the chance to hear her again.
Our dance is too sacred to attribute to you, Terpsichore. We weave between truth and lie for and from others' eyes, a waltz precariously stepped among knives of envy, swords of control, and the damning pikes of expectation. But it's still our tempo and meter, from which we go, patient and caring and honest to ourselves to blunt the blades.
A chorus of emotion too tidal to weather, and no synchronized voice could bear it for us, Erato. This circus is ours, these feelings far too broad to speak of, with depth to match. I've heard your chorus before, but this breadth before me is beyond us both, and all before a remnant of rain against an ocean's gift.
Melphane has seen our plight, but to owe these words to her is a disservice; she is not the one living them! To be cursed by distance and yet unable to bear it too, left with a hole borne of younger steps. I cannot fault her, of course, as we are impermanent and waiting could be it's own tragedy. But we have the now, and there is safety there.
At least Thalia comes close, the weight of levity upon us. Invoking her would promise cheer and a happy ending, no? But to do so maybe betray that lives are not so simple. And I would not, kind muse, accept any less of the bumps and burns upon my muse. We are as they make us, you see, so I cannot ask for thee. Only I, and she, and that which came before for us to be.
Finally, Urainia, I lament neglecting you. The sky above and all it's stars, wishes and dreams and hope, are truly endless. But even in all these you cannot be as light as my chosen star. Nor as vast as my encompassing love. Our story lies not with your constellations, but in the secret places of whispered us, where marks are left on the soul, not the sky.
To you, my muse, my fantasy, my legacy, my faith, my song, my dance, my voice, my comfort, my joy, my sky.
This is for you, just you, only you.
Our song and sky and dance and joy and all that entails, my darling muse. It's me.
I'm yours.