You asked me why I didn’t love you.
Its not that I didn’t. Rather, that I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to be a steady girlfriend to you. I wanted to be the Laura to your Petrarch, the Beatrice to your Dante.

In order to be a muse, one must remain always out of the reach of her artist. What is art but the physical manifestation of a hunger of the soul? People make art out of what they long for. If I had given myself to you freely, the spark would have vanished, the inspiration would have been gone, and you would have left me to find some other pretty bright thing. Whether it was because of my ego or my heart, maybe I was just afraid to loose you.
So I made myself elusive. You dressed me up in words and colors and songs. You built me figurative castles and swathed me in your art; you made me a goddess, and in return, I offered you a glimpse into a secret world only to snatch it away. But didn’t that make it more desirable? Isn’t that why you kept coming back?
I will admit that I have been cruel, but power to any muse can be irresistible—we are addictive creatures by nature. It is not a trait to be proud of; it is simply a fact of my character. But I know you will believe me when I say that I never meant to hurt you—if nothing else, I have always been honest with you. Call me the most pretentious tease to ever live, but a liar I am not.

I have been stormy and volatile and reckless; I have fallen apart and made you pick up the pieces, drawn you in and cast you away. I have made you a slave to my whims. But would you really have loved me in the same way if I’d been anything other than what I am?
In the end, if I’d allowed myself to, I think that yes, I would have loved you. You are my Poet still, even after all this time.